


How Worlds Collide

by FOREVER_SHERLOCKED



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly, Awesome Molly Hooper, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Molly, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, F/M, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg is Sweet, Happy Molly Hooper, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper & Meena Friendship, Molly Hooper & Mrs. Hudson Friendship, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper is a Good Friend, Molly is a Newbie, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Protective Greg, Rehabilitation, Sherlock & Mrs. Hudson friendship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock-centric, St. Bart's Morgue, Younger Molly, Younger Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FOREVER_SHERLOCKED/pseuds/FOREVER_SHERLOCKED
Summary: The Journey of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, and how they met Greg Lestrade & Mrs. Hudson respectively, as well as the slow burn meeting of one another.Our journey begins in May of 2008 (with a couple flashbacks to 2005), and will take us alongside Sherlock and Molly's lives, up to the moment John Watson enters the picture to complete the Baker Street Squad in July of 2010.
Relationships: Molly Hooper & Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper/Mike Stamford, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, The Baker Street Gang Before They Became The Baker Street Gang
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. The Right & Wrong Path of a Graduate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabbit_in_blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_in_blue/gifts).



_{ The Blog of DOCTOR Molly Hooper - May 17, 2008 _

_One Bachelor’s degree, one Medical degree (oh my gosh, I’m a doctor!!!), an extra graduate degree in forensics and anatomy, and four years of training alongside the best and brightest of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. That has been the only life of one very tired, but very proud Molly L. Hooper, age twenty-seven. Well, twenty-seven tomorrow, anyway! While it’s been true that I have not had much of a life yet, I am well on my way to the type of life I want to lead. Some people call me morbid, gory, depressing, weird, creepy—but isn’t that part of the fun? To me it is. Cutting into a cadaver and solving the mystery of how someone died and finding clues about the type of life they led is nothing short of fascinating. I wish more people would realize how much skill, intelligence, and insight it takes to stick with all the schooling and come out of the other side being a Forensic Pathologist._

_Most of my friends say it’s not worth it, or they did anyway when I still had friends. Might be my fault though...school did take up the giant majority of my time in the last eight-ish years. Hard to keep friends when you don’t see them much… Anyway, back to my point. Ever since my Dad died and my brother went off to the Army, life has been very cruel to me. Now, stay with me, this isn’t a pity post, I assure you. The point of this post is to explain why I wanted to become a forensic pathologist. I felt the need to explain this because of two reasons. One, my best friend Meena, who has stuck by me since the first year of high school, will never cease to ask me WHY, for all of the reasons I mentioned above. Two, because maybe somewhere out there in the universe, at some point, a lost and hurting teen will come across this blog in it’s old and partially archived age and need some motivation to keep going, the way I did. So let me explain._

_Ever since I was a little kid, I had an odd curiosity about death. My Dad used to tell me that when my grandmother died, I would ask him every day where she went, why she went, how she went…well, you get the point. Every day. When he finally told me that she died from what he called at the time “sick lungs”, that sort of snowballed my curiosity into a whole new slew of questions for him. How did they get sick? What were they sick from? Why did that make her die?_

_Turns out my Dad’s mother, my grandmother, had lung cancer. Apparently, it runs in the family, on his side. When I was young, I was very close to her, and despite my grief, I was still a curious eight-year-old. I never lost or forgot that curiosity. Now, many people know that my Dad was an Army veteran. So, when he got lung cancer, he wasn’t very surprised; seeing how his mother had it, plus all the gunpowder and other chemicals from the battlefield that he must have breathed in for years. I was eighteen when he died, I had just graduated and he told me to never stop working towards my dream, and to never lose my curiosity because it would take me far. So I didn’t. Through my second wave of grief, I realized he was right, so I worked and worked and worked and here I am today, finally bringing my schooling to a close and beginning the rest of my life with my dream job._

_I became a forensic pathologist not only for myself, and to make my Dad proud, but also to be able to bring closure to other families who lose loved ones. People who may not know why their loved one died. I also did it so that maybe, just maybe I can learn more about cancer—maybe its sick, but I long for the day I get to do an autopsy on a person who had it too. I want to study it. I know little old me won’t find the cure for cancer, but who can blame a girl for craving more information? My Dad and my brother were/are the most important people in my life. Other than Meena, of course. My Dad got me through a lot of hardships and heartaches, and he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. So there are your reasons._

_I’m not ashamed to call myself the Doctor of the Dead (har har), because I know that I’m not only making myself proud and doing what I want with my life going forward, but that I’m also making him proud._

_X X X Molly_ }

Molly closes her laptop and sighs, looking around her tiny, crummy flat. It had begun to rain, and she can hear the light drip drip noise of the small ceiling leak in her kitchen. Going into the other room, she grabs the big blue bucket from the small closet and places it under the dripping, pursing her lips in annoyance. She leans against the counter and looks around, hoping that some day soon she will be able to run from this place. It’s nearly condemnable. She grabs a frozen pizza from her small freezer and pops it in the oven. While it’s cooking, she flips through the channels on her telly, trying to find something, anything that would pique her interest. Within a few moments she finds a show about real life mysteries and stops, her eyebrow raising a bit curiously. Content with that choice, she returns to the kitchen just in time to take out her pizza. As it cools, she takes the opportunity to throw her soft pjs and her glasses on, then returns, grabbing her food, and settling down on her sofa for a night of thrilling TV marathons.

~~~~~~~

_{The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – May 17, 2008_

_I thought I was getting better with everything. My Mum and Dad think I’m just fine, the way they should. The last thing I need is them meddling in my life like they have for the last twenty-nine years. I keep thinking how pleasant it would be if I could get Mycroft off my damn arse too. Yes, I will admit I have “fallen off the wagon” sometimes as he says ever so gracefully in his stupid posh British Government tone. It’s funny how one’s priorities shift when they have a high priority position of power. But back to my point, I keep telling him, I am a /user/, not an /addict/. You would think getting through nearly six years of schooling to attempt to make something of myself would prove to them that I am not some overgrown child that needs babysitting every day. I am a grown man with a graduate chemistry, criminal psychology, and forensics degree. If I choose to make something of myself, that will be my choice, and my choice alone. What I need is a job where I can work alone and do what I want, when I want. Something with crime. However, I will never be a police officer. I shudder just thinking about it. Yes, I suppose it takes a certain amount of skill, but to me, the large majority of humankind are filled with halfwits._

_My mind needs near constant stimulation and that just won’t do. Especially around people who do the opposite of stimulate, they absolutely rot my brain with incessant small talk about things that aren’t important in this world at all. My peers used to make fun of me for not knowing insignificant things learned in primary school. Why bother retain information that you’ll never use? Dumb. I suppose sometimes it would have been nice to sit at a table with a like-minded person or persons. But by twenty-eight, I know by now that I’m a sort of freak of nature. Not as much as Mycroft, but still. Runs in the family, apparently. I don’t think there is anyone in this world I could say is like-minded to me. A reaffirming, yet depressing thought all at once. Mycroft always taunts me about being the more human one. As much as I DESPISE admitting he is right, it must be. Feelings suck. But then I suppose that’s part of the reason why the drugs feel so amazing. They numb my feelings all the while stimulating my brain in the best ways. I hate the stigma, and I wish people would realize what it does for me. But as I said, there’s no one in the world that’s like me. No one in the world to begin to understand. Ugh._

_SH }_

Sherlock shuts his laptop and ruffles his dark, very curly hair in frustration. He looks around at his small studio and sighs, his face falling a bit. He picks up his mobile and checks to see if he has notifications, but as usually everything is empty. No emails, no texts, no missed calls. Setting his jaw in annoyance, he puts it down again and gets up to pace a bit, picking up the skull that is sitting on his small end table.

“Ah, hello Vic. Have I been killing you with my intellectual rants lately? I do tend to ramble about things people see as unthinkable or unimaginable, but they’re really quite simple if people would just observe and not take every last situation at face value.”

He looks at the skull and scoffs. “Who am I kidding? You’re already dead. You’re an inanimate object. I could ramble all day and you wouldn’t give two shits what I have to say, eh? Yeah, that’s what I thought...nobody else does either.” He places it back down and balls his fists out of habit, the urges coming back to him. They have been getting stronger for weeks now and he has done nearly everything he can think of not to pick up the needle, but sometimes he /needs/ it. Making large strides towards his bedroom, he opens his sock drawer and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He has two left and swears to himself, grabbing one. Stepping outside, he only gets a few moments to take in a few large drags before the rain starts to come down hard enough to put it out.

“No!” he growls and drops it in the filthy, unused bird fountain. He sinks to the ground, not caring that his clothes are being soaked through from the rain as he rubs his face in distress. After a while, Sherlock pulls himself up and begins walking, already soaked. Before he even processes where he’s going, in front of him appears a very old, dilapidated, graffitied building. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he makes his way inside and shakes his hair out as best he can. He sees rows of sleeping bags and sleeping people. Sherlock knows in his heart that he should not be here, but his head screams for some.

“Wiggins!! Wiggins, where the hell are you, you ingrate!?”

Shuffling is heard near the staircase and a very dirty ginger haired young man pops into view. “Eyy, I’m not an ingrate, you are! Whatcha want, ‘olmes? I was startin’ to think you’d never be back ‘ere.”

“I need some. Get me some. Now.”

“Eyy mate, you know I can’t supply withou’ payment!”

Sherlock growls and rips his wallet out of his soaked sweatpants, handing him a few soggy bills. “Now get it, NOW.”

Wiggins rushes up the stairs and returns moments later, handing Sherlock a big baggy of needles, filled with heroin. He puts them in his sweatshirt pocket and shoves his wallet back into his pants. “Thanks...”, he mutters, slightly disappointed in himself.

“Ya welcome, mate. See ya next time.”

“There won’t be a next time, Wiggins.”

“Aye, that’s what ya always say.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and walks out into the rain again, quickening his pace as he walks back towards his flat. When he gets there, he’s shivering but ignores it, rushing to his small kitchen and immediately testing the needles. He may be a drug /user/, but he is not a dirty one, he always makes sure that he’s safe first; rather, that the needles are safe /for/ him. Every time. He supposes that his superior mind allows him to be better than other users in that way. They seem fine, but coming from Wiggins, it always makes him slightly uneasy. To be extra safe, he empties the heroin into a steel bowl and melts the needle points down with his torch so he can easily toss later, without risk. Taking out the new needles that he got online, Sherlock sterilizes them with alcohol wipes and dries them, then fills them with the heroin in the steel bowl.

He runs his fingers through his damp curls and sheds his soaking shirt, tossing it into his bedroom. He paces around for a while, glancing at the needles on the counter, over and over again. In the back of his mind, and in his heart, he knows it’s wrong, that he really shouldn’t. But he can’t take the silence anymore. He needs the stimulation, the high. 

Picking them up, he brings them with him to the sofa as he lays down on it, and raises the first needle to his forearm, hovering hesitantly. He was lucky that the last time the track marks didn’t scar him, and wonders what would happen if he were to fall back into old habits. It’s more likely than not that he could fall back into the destructive pattern if he goes through with this, but he /needs/ the invigoration that it can give him. With the loneliness and quiet all around him settling into his bones, he slips the needle into his forearm, and plunges the heroin into his veins. Sherlock sighs wonderfully and his eyes slip closed as he let’s the euphoria take over.


	2. New Routines and Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly begins the career she has always wanted; Sherlock reminisces about his slip up that landed him into a deep hole only a very special person could have helped pull him out of.

Two weeks later, Molly wakes up with her alarm blaring in her ear and groans, rolling over and trying to smack the button to get it to stop. Once she successfully does so, she buries her face in her pillow once more before slowly getting up. Walking over to her shabby dresser, she pulls out a purple floral blouse and her khakis. Today is the day she begins working in Bart’s morgue all on her own. Her nerves buzz with nervousness and excitement as she sheds her pajamas and steps into the lukewarm shower, letting the water run down her body, waking her up a bit more to face the day. Once finished, she pulls on her clothing and returns to her bedroom to slip on her shoes. She then brushes through her long brown hair and bites her lip; she’s going to have to tame it better if she’s going to be leaning over corpses, body parts, and blood. Walking to her mirror, she begins brushing through her hair, removing the tangles and then braiding, before twisting it into a braided bun. Biting her lip out of habit, she decides to put a little bit of mascara on. Afterall, she wants to look presentable to her higher ups if they come by to check up on her work.

While on the way to work, Molly passes by a little café. It has a glaring red and white sign that says “Speedy’s”. She has driven by this little place nearly every day for the past five or so years, and has never stopped in, despite being curious. Glancing at the clock in her small VW Beetle, Molly decides that she has just enough time to grab a coffee before she has to be in the morgue, and luckily there is a parking spot open.

Once parked, Molly makes small strides into the place, the warm, familiar atmosphere feeling cozy and welcoming, and the scent of warm pastries, muffins, and coffee swirls around her until it reaches her slightly upturned nose, making her smile. She walks up to the glass pastry case and the register and is greeted by a lively, but kind older woman in a bright purple skirt and long-sleeved blouse. There is a bit of flour on her sleeve cuffs.

“Good Morning to you, dear! What can I get you today?”, the elderly woman chirps happily.

Molly grins and looks into the case, her mouth watering a bit, and she realizes she had forgotten to eat too. “I’ll grab a medium coffee, cream and three sugars, please. Oh, and er...a blueberry muffin as well.”

“Coming right up, love.” The woman grabs a baggie and wraps up a muffin for her, then pours and prepares her coffee, placing a lid on it and handing it to her. Molly pays and thanks her.

“This is an amazing little bakery café you have got here Ms…”, she trails off.

“Ms. Hudson. Thank you very much. It was always my passion, and I have many loyal customers. I do hope you enjoy your muffin and your coffee dear, and I hope to see you again soon.”

“You’re very welcome, Ms. Hudson. Thank you again. Good day.” Molly nods politely to her and walks out, a bright smile across her face. Making a mental note to stop by the small business more often, Molly realizes that her life is changing for the better. In fact, this is the first day of the rest of her life. A half hour later, Molly pulls into the parking lot of Bart’s Hospital and quickly eats her muffin in her car, then grabs her coffee and heads to the morgue. She hopes today will go well.

~~~~~~~

_***Three Years Earlier, June 2005*** _

The hot May sun glares down on London, gifting it’s people with cheerier moods and productive vibes. Richer families enjoy the day in the parks with their children, and middle and poorer class workers get busy at work for the day, and the elderly even go on slow walks, the sun warming their usually chilled bones. Everyone in London seems happy and light today. Well, everyone except one William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Sherlock grunts in frustration as pain strikes his muscles and bones. He shifts his body a bit and opens his eyes a crack, harsh, uninviting (to him) sun immediately piercing his eyesight. Hissing, he groans and sits up, feeling the loud shuffle of newspapers and trash bags underneath him. The loudness of people walking and talking and yelling with disgusting glee finally reaches his ears and he attempts to unblur his bleary eyes, dazed and confused. Looking around, his vision is doubled for a few moments before clearing just enough to form one picture. That’s when he notices that he is in an alleyway, on top of discarded recyclables, and there is a man standing over him. Oh, and he’s yelling at him the way Mycroft does when he’s in trouble with their parents.

“Hello!? Hello!? Kid, can you hear me?? Do you know where you are? Can you breathe for me?”

Sherlock shields his eyes from the sun as he looks up and down at the man. [5’7, average build, in his early forties, brownish hair that is slowly turning grey, government job, professional, pretty good pay going by the long flowing coat and the brand new shiny black shoes he has; looks higher end]. Glancing toward the man’s middle his deductions continue. [Nameplate (blurry at the moment, come back to it), one…two…concealed weapons, handcuffs on his waist, a shiny (ohh a badge, shit he’s a coppa), holding some shiny container looking thing…]

“Hello!? Kid??” The man squats down and gently grabs Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head up to look at his eyes.

“Heyyy...hands off!” Sherlock growls and pulls his face away.

“Oh, Thank God. How are you feeling? Probably terrible. Don’t worry, I wasn’t gonna let you die if I could help it.”

“Die??” Sherlock thinks to himself, the memory of him injecting the heroin over and over, in the course of the last couple weeks coming back to mind, last night was the worst. He may have injected a bit too much. Shaking his head, Sherlock sits up, his head and muscles throbbing as looks closer at the can, his dark curls wild and untamed around his head.

“Naloxone...you-you...brought me back from an overdose, then.”

“H-How do you know...”

“What Naloxone is? I’m a drug user, of course I know what it is. Naloxone, or in more general terms, Narcan. Used to bring drug users back from overdoses and possible death. People know of it, but it’s not yet verified for police use yet. Not only do I know because I am a user, but I am also a graduate chemist believe it or not. So I suppose the question is, why are /you/ using it, when it hasn’t been cleared for official use yet hm?”

“I-...I carry it because I know it works...from personal experience...and despite my job, if I can save a life, I will. Uhh…by the way, how /did/ you know I was a cop? I’m in plain clothes.”

Sherlock pushes the right side of the man’s coat back and squints at the small golden nameplate that was hidden more when he squatted. “Well Officer…Lestrade. I’m a genius with deduction skills. Laugh as you please, but it’s true. I assume a family member is a drug user hm? Most likely. Not you if you’re still on the force. Anyway, to answer your question, it was fairly easy to spot the crease where your gun is in your waistband, and where your baton is hidden on your other hip, not to mention the shine of your nameplate peeking out of your long coat, which, by the way it’s way too hot to be wearing anyway, so clearly you’re wearing it to conceal something. Plus the curve of your badge, poorly hidden on your hip next to your baton, your stance when you were standing over me, perfectly straight and professional, the way you kept your cool over a half dead drug user, the way you were even concerned, not to mention your hair…”

“My hair??”

“Yes. I estimate you can’t be any older than say forty-two, yet your hair is already turning grey. Meaning you work at a high stress, fast paced job that depends on reputation. Put that together with everything I already deduced about you and police becomes quite simple to see. Plus, as a younger man if you weren’t a dedicated officer of the law, you’d probably dye your hair but seeing as it’s prematurely going grey and you are keeping it that way, I assume as in most police agencies grey hair is a sign of dignity, experience, and high morale, possibly a giveaway to a higher title as well. The stipulation about silver foxes and all that, how women love them. So…what are you then? Drug unit Sergeant?”

Lestrade gapes for a moment then clears his voice. “Erm…no. D-Detective. Detective Inspector, I mean. Just got the promotion. Also, I don’t keep my hair grey for women, it’s a sign of dignity as you said...plus, I’m married.”

“Unhappily.”

“What?”

“Unhappily married.”

The Detective Inspector’s eyes widen a bit. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Obvious. She cheated on you and probably more than once, you got upset, took your ring off, lost some weight just to stick it to her. How do I know that? Easy. Your ring is looser on your finger, there’s a tan line where it used to sit comfortably if not a bit tight, meaning you had it on when you went on vacation with her, found out she was cheating shortly after and took it off, resulting in the tan line. Yet she roped you back in recently and you put it back on only to find that it is now a bit loose due to your recent weight loss.”

“How the hell could you know about our vacation?”

Sherlock scoffs and gives him a look of utter disgust. “You’re serious?”

“Y-yeah..?”

“Ugh, you’re such a simpleton. It’s now May…”

“It’s June 1st, actually.”

“Right. Well, close enough. June 1st in London. Going by the tan line on your finger, it was obtained at least three months ago, as it’s fading. Going by the weather in London around February and March, I can tell you it’s not hot, sunny, nor tropical enough to give you that much of a sun tan, so the only logical conclusion is a vacation abroad during the cold and dreary beginning of the year in London.”

“Astonishing...”

“E-Excuse me?”

“Your gifts. It’s just…you have this incredible gift of insight, yet you choose to be a junkie, bordering the cusp of death. Why? That’s a terrible, horrible waste of talent. But I knew there was a reason I looked into this alley earlier. I just…I had a feeling I should.”

Sherlock groans and rubs his face. “Please don’t give me all that song and dance about fate and destiny type crap.”

The D.I chuckles lightly. “Alright. Well, the rig should be here soon. You need to be checked out. If you want, I’ll come with.”

“I don’t need a damn checkup.” Sherlock snaps.

“Yes, you do. You nearly overdosed. You’re going, or I’ll arrest you for possession of an illegal substance.”

“Ughhhhhh.” He flops back on the recycling and stares up at the glaring sun. “Just go away. Leave me be.”

“Sorry mate, not going to happen. You must be what, twenty-five? You’re pretty much a kid.”

“Twenty-/nine/”, he growls. “I’m not a kid.”

“Well, you’re acting like one. So behave or the cuffs are going on. Look, I don’t want to have to play good cop, bad cop. I want to keep this civil. I hate being bad cop. Please don’t make it any difficult than this has to be.”

Sherlock huffs and set his jaw, his pale forearm bruised and aching from the track marks. He was not very gentle with himself last night, and his hands were already trembling by his third injection of the evening. He doesn’t even remember how he got in the alley.

“So...what’s your name? I’m Greg.”

Looking up at him with a sharp, intense annoyance, Sherlock’s blue-green eyes glistened in the sun. “Sherlock...”

“What?”

“Sherlock.”

Greg Lestrade quirks an eyebrow. “Sher...Sherlink...Sherl...”

“Oh for God’s sake! It’s NOT that hard. SHER. LOCK. Sher like “sure”, lock like “lock”. Got it??”

“Sher-lock. Got it, sorry. It’s just…not something you hear every day, that’s all.”

“Why would my name be ordinary when I’m extraordinary?”

“Well…I suppose you have a point there...”

“I always do.”

“Right, well c’mon. Up you go. The rig is here”, he states as the ambulance pulls up. Lestrade gently helps Sherlock to his feet, he grunts when his throbbing arm brushes his side. Sherlock allows him to lead him shakily to the ambulance and onto a gurney. He pulls a list out of his pocket and hands it to D.I Lestrade.

“I-It’s the list...of what I’ve taken. Just heroin this time but er...all the measurements are on there. If they need to know...”

Lestrade’s eyes widen a bit as he peers at the piece of paper but nods slowly. “I’ll follow in my car. I’ll see ya soon, kid- er.. Sher-lock.”

Sherlock nods as his headache takes over, allowing him to drift to sleep in the ambulance.

~~~~~~~

_{ The Blog of DOCTOR Molly Hooper – June 1 st, 2008_

_Today went pretty great, a lot better than I imagined it would. My first day in the morgue by myself, and it felt so freeing. Granted, I was definitely nervous doing my first autopsy without anyone looking over my shoulder, but at the same time I had confidence in what I was doing, and I successfully completed it. It was an older woman, age 82. She was alone in her home when she died, which is why the family requested an autopsy. Despite suspicions from the family, she did in fact die of natural causes. Nothing that would point towards foul play at all, which is good because she looks like she was a kind person._

_My new boss is a nice, jolly looking, chubby fellow. His name is Dr. Michael Stamford. He’s the head of the pathology department. He prefers just to be called “Mike” though. Mike popped by a few times to make sure I was doing okay. He’s a really good boss and he seems to genuinely care about his employees._

_Unfortunately, the morgue is not the best place in the hospital to make new friends. Today wasn’t so successful in that aspect, but I’m sure it will come with time. Plus, as I mentioned a couple weeks ago, not many people want to be friends with someone who cuts up dead bodies for a living. It would take someone very special and understanding to be able to handle that, and I get it. I do understand that, and I knew that when I chose this career. Plus, at least I still have Meena! As long as I have my best friend, she’s really the only one I need and I am satisfied with having one friend that knows me, as apposed to many who do know truly know me._

_I’ve been stopping by Speedy’s more often on my way to work when I have a bit of extra time. Mrs. Hudson is an incredible baker. I find it funny that she lives on “Baker” Street. Hehe. But not only is she a great baker, but she’s the type of woman that you meet, and you automatically see her as your grandmother. She’s warm, sweet, caring, and she gives pretty great advice. However, I have also gotten a sense of how tough she is. Not only did she scare an employee of hers who was this great, big, tall six foot something bulky man baker, but when I told her what I did for a living she laughed and cracked a joke. Was not the reaction I was expected, but a reaction that was pleasantly different from any other I’ve ever gotten. She’s truly a special woman; makes my mornings better. She also asked me today if I were single. HA. Of course, I’m single, I’m a /pathologist/. When I told her this she just scoffed and told me that a real man would love me for the strange, yet incredible and “beautiful” (in her words, not mine) woman I am. I’m pretty sure I turned into a tomato at that point. Let’s be honest, what man would ever like a woman like me? My last boyfriend, Trevor (six years ago) broke up with me when he realized what I was going to Uni to become. Point and case._

_X X X Molly }_

~~~~~~~

**_*Three Years Earlier June 2005*_ **

_{ The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – June 1 st, 2005}_

_I’m in hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. By hell, I obviously mean hospital. I’ll survive, as I always do, but having all these people around telling me what I need to do and tending to me is disgusting. I’d rather be left alone! Plus, typing this on my small mobile is not as functional as typing it on my laptop. But, back to hospital- I did not come here of my own accord, of course. I met a D.I from the NSY. D.I Lestrade. He’s a decent fellow I suppose. Idiotic like most normal people, but decent, nonetheless. He dragged me here to be “checked” because there may or may not have been a situation in which he possibly thought I was dead. It was either here or a cell, so I took the road less rocky. Well, less rocky as long as Mycroft doesn’t find out either way._

_However, I very much enjoyed the look of surprise on Lestrade’s face when he realized my “gifts” as he called it. I much prefer to call it my power of deduction. It never ceases to either impress or completely scare the pants off people. It gives me pleasure when I scare them though, it’s quite funny. They act like I’m some clairvoyant mind reader or some crap. The absolutely cockamamie things normal people will think up despite logic never ceases to astound me. My ability to read people to a tee has nothing to do with mind reading, however I must admit that would be pretty invigorating, if it were ever possible. Which it’s not, since it defies logic._

_Lestrade was incredibly simple to read, and terrible at being undercover, or in “plain clothes”, as he says. He’s a professional officer of the law, a family man, a great father despite the frankly horrifying relationship he has with their mother, and he’s a man’s man. Into rugby, having pints, running after criminals for invigoration (something I could see being exciting). I got all of that from his car; well, the glimpse that I got of his car before being hauled into the rig._

_Children’s books and toys spread about the back seat. Three girls and one boy, the youngest being a set of girl/boy twins going by the matching toddler car seats and the photo of him with the four of them in his line of sight from the driver’s seat (less their mother), rugby charm hanging from the mirror with his favorite team on it, neon uniform vest and jacket on one side of the back seat for outdoor police work. Must I say more? Ah, you’re waiting for an explanation as to how I know he’s a man’s man. Well, let’s be honest- with a big complicated family like that, what guy wouldn’t want the occasional, or weekly pint with his buddies while watching the game? That one was simple._

_Hopefully, I can go back to my flat soon. I absolutely dread being here if you didn’t get that already. My veins are tingling, and I need a fix. I know I shouldn’t have one...this is the worst part of being a user. Also, the fact that if I don’t shoot up again, the detox will take me down too. Maybe if I get out of here, I can distract myself and take a walk to Speedy’s, grabbing one of those delicious blueberry scones that the older woman who owns the place makes. They’re delicious and I’m suddenly starving and nauseous all at once._

_Detox is so much fun, said nobody ever._

_SH }_

Lestrade walks into his hospital room and grins. “Ah, you’re awake this time! Of course, on your phone. All you younger people are so attached to those things now. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”, Sherlock mumbles, setting his phone on his lap.

Greg sits backwards on a chair and rests his arms on the top. “Fine? Are you sure? Cause most drug addicts I meet would not use that term to define how they feel after a near overdose.”

“/User/, I am a /user/, not an addict.”

“Mhh...I don’t quite know about that. If you weren’t an addict you would have been able to stop yourself from nearly overdosing, yet you needed it so much that you didn’t.”

“Shut up.”

“Ooh, hit a nerve, did I? Good, because you need help. You’re the most talented and intelligent young man I have ever met, Sherlock. You have absolutely unlimited potential and seeing that go down the drain because you have an addiction is sickening. You could be free of that and use your talents to get a good job, to help a lot of people if you wanted to.”

“Pfft.”, he scoffs, turning his head away.

“Hey, I mean it. Look, I’m one of the bosses of the detective unit at New Scotland Yard. I’m willing to make a deal with you. I looked you up and realized that you not only have a chemistry degree, but also a criminal psychology and forensics degree. That’s super impressive. SO, if you do us both a favor and check yourself into a rehab, which I will help pay for, I’d be willing to bring you into my job and show you how we do things. Your skill of noticing tiny details could be extremely helpful in crime solving. I want you to shadow me for awhile to see if it would be something you’d be interested in, in the long run. Plus, you would be using your mind and hopefully not thinking about needing drugs.”

Sherlock looks over at him and furrows his brow. “What? Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why? Why would you want to help someone like me? I’m an arsehole drug “addict” in your mind, so why the hell would you want to have to handle me day after day shadowing you at your job??”

“I told you. Your skills are completely unique, and very impressive. I don’t think you’re an ass, I just think you need to channel your mind into something more productive and not destructive. But as I said, you would have to go to rehab and be completely clean before you’d be able to come to NSY with me. So…what do you say?”

Sherlock sighs shakily and looks at his trembling hands. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

“Brother? No.”

“Good. As long as he doesn’t know I’m going to rehab then...I suppose I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“Good.” Lestrade takes out a business card and hands it to Sherlock. “This is the rehab that my niece went to. She’s doing so well now. It was comfortable there, and the staff cared. I’m assuming it will be four to five months for you, just to be sure. Ninety days to detox, thirty days for extended sober care, and thirty days of therapy. Once they think you’re okay to leave, I’ll take you on as my shadow. But you’ll be randomly drug tested as you work with me, to be sure you’re sticking to being sober. Alright?”

Sherlock groans and clenches his jaw. “Fine.”

“Alright then. The nurse is going to come in with your discharge papers shortly, I’ll drive you to your house, or flat, or wherever and you can pack, and we will get you settled in tonight.”

Sherlock rubs his face then looks at Lestrade, completely taken aback by how nice he is being to him, especially since he just met him, and he had already been severely deduced by him. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Gary.”

“Greg.”

“Hm?”

“It’s Greg, not Gary.”

“Right well, its Sherlock, not Sherlink. Payback’s a bitch.”

Lestrade laughs and Sherlock joins in after a moment. “Touché.”


	3. The Long Road to Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly ponders over how different her life could have gone if she let her bad past harden her heart; It's Halloween and Molly spends it in the morgue alone for the first time; Sherlock spends it in rehab, thinking over his poor life choices and how exactly he ended up being who he is.

_{ The Blog of Doctor Molly Hooper – October 30, 2008_

_Hello all! I had a good Thursday, how was yours? I must say, year twenty-seven of being on this Earth has gone a lot better than my past years. I’ve been working by myself at work for nearly five months and I have already been praised by the higher ups for my “precise and nearly flawless” work. While I (humbly) admit I was at the top of my class in school, and I take pride in what I do, and how I do it, I wouldn’t say I am nearly flawless. Everyone has flaws. Some worse than others. But nevertheless, it was a really shining moment for me. Since my Dad died nine year ago, I haven’t really had many people cheer me on and recognize the good work that I do enough to praise me for it. It felt really, really good. Like I was floating!_

_I was talking to Lanie today; she sometimes helps out in the lab when we are overrun and understaffed. It doesn’t happen too often, but I enjoy seeing her. She kept teasing me about tomorrow. Halloween. In the morgue. Alone. The evening shift. OOOH, scary eh? I’ve thought about it, but I think I’m in the clear. If any vengeful ghost came out of one of those fridge compartments, I’m pretty sure I am not the one they would want revenge on, as I help them, not hurt them. However, we may have more of an issue in the case of zombies!_

_I’m just kidding, I don’t believe in zombies, and only a teeny part of me believes in ghosts, or rather, angels. Kind of the same thing if you think about it though. Halloween is a fun holiday. I’m hoping I will be home in time to hand out candy to all the cute kiddos; I always enjoy seeing the costumes they wear. It makes me remember back when I was a tween, and teen. My dad and I would take my little brother Matty out trick-or-treating and then once he was in bed, we would watch scary movies or marathons of “The Twilight Zone”. It was always a good time. I wish my childhood were more like my brother’s, but not everyone is dealt a good hand in life. I’m just glad he was young enough to forget the bad days before my Dad got full custody. I’m glad he knew that at least had a father and big sister that loved him and cared for him._

_Some people (Meena) have asked me if I hate or despise my mother for everything terrible she did. I don’t think it’s possible to carry hate in my heart, as it would only bring me down as a person, and I don’t want any part of being even a tiny miniscule bit like her. However, memories of her scare me to this day, more so than any ghosts or zombies could. Maybe it’s too cruel to say, but the real monsters in this world don’t come in the form of ghosts, goblins, zombies, or skeletons, they are simply people like my mother. People with amazing disguises in public who are absolutely despicable behind closed doors. Granted, I know a part of it could have been her sickness, her alcoholism. But I think that is a very rocky strait, as I know that not all alcoholics or addicts are abusive, hateful people. Some of them are very kind people who just have struggles they need to work on. I don’t talk about my mother much because there is simply nothing to talk about. She’s not in my life, nor do I want or need her in it. That’s all there is to the current story regarding her. Matty knows what she did in the past and he made his own decision not to go looking for her either. He can be very protective of me, and even though I’m older, he’s taller and buffer from the Army! LOL._

_Anyway, I hope you all sleep well tonight and have a lovely Halloween tomorrow! Spoil those kids rotten if you have them, because you are very lucky that they are happy and healthy (believe me). Even if you don’t have kids, give them all a little extra candy. You never know what goes on at their home, and what could give them just a tiny bit more joy. Goodnight!_

_X X X Molly }_

The next day, Molly shudders as the chill of the morgue seeps into her bones. Wrapping her lab coat tighter around her, she rolls the body back into the 013 fridge compartment and smiles. She snaps off her gloves and throws them into the waste bin as she heads back to her office. Slipping her lab coat off, she grabs her keys and locks up, heading to the women’s locker room. She’s glad the locker rooms have automatic lights, because knowing how clumsy she is, she would probably stumble around for ages trying to find the light switch. Walking to her locker, she unlocks it and grabs her fall coat, replacing it with her lab coat and retrieving her purse.

The floors squeak with every step of her shoes within that dingy basement level as she makes her way to the parking garage. Admittedly, she does feel a bit creepy, but it’s probably due to all the looks she got from everyone today. They all know by now that she’s the “morgue girl”, or her personal favorite, the “woman of the dead”. Molly chuckles softly as she unlocks her car and gets into it, driving back to her small flat.

Once inside, she empties the candy that she bought the other day into the pumpkin shaped bucket that she uses every year and changes into a cute unicorn onesie that she has. When she and Meena had gone to the mall a few years back, they had seen the most adorable adult animal onesies and dared each other to get one. Molly chose the unicorn, and Meena had chose a leopard. Molly giggles to herself, remembering how foolish they felt buying them, but hey, they make for a great, quick Halloween costume to show the kids.

Molly spends the next three hours handing out candy to the little children of the surrounding blocks, before changing into some pajamas and settling on her sofa with the marathon of “The Twilight Zone” playing. She munches on some of her favorite candy and wraps herself in her favorite fuzzy blanket, looking forward to having her weekend free.

~~~~~~~

{ _The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – October 31, 2008_

_Well, I feel the way I did three years ago nearly to the date. I am (again) currently four months into my drug program, past detox, almost finished with post-detox counseling, and I’ll be out of here within two weeks. Lestrade has been checking in on me, which, as much as I despise most people, he’s pretty tolerable. What has NOT been very tolerable today are the cheery doctors and nurses in disgustingly tacky garb walking around with candy that ISN’T laced. Halloween is just a lame excuse for adults to act like stupid children as if they aren’t stupid and juvenile enough already._

_So far I have evaded having to actually shadow Lestrade at his job, even though I had made a bit of a deal with him three years ago that I would. However, I have had plenty of time in here to think, and I have come to the conclusion that if I want to actually get a handle on my life, I should TRY to advance my skills. Unfortunately that may require keeping my end of the bargain from a few years ago. I like to think I'm a bit more mature than I was back then, but then again...if I truly were I probably wouldn't be back in rehab. I suppose I'll tell him that I will try the shadowing thing. I really do want to stop being dependant of Mycroft, and I believe dealing with Lestrade as a bit of a boss/helicopter big brother (as if one wasn't enough already) would be better than having to see Mycroft's smugness at my dependency every time I see his gruesome face. Plus, as I said, advancing my skills would be a plus, and one thing I could hold over Mycroft. More knowledge of crime, murder, and the dead._

_I haven’t typed much over the course of the last four months because I was busy vomiting my life away, or sweating so much someone could mop the floor with it. Then there was the shaking and the irritation...if people thought I was an ass before, they would not want to be anywhere in my vicinity when I am detoxing. I am an absolute monster. It’s not like I set out to make the nurses cry…it just sort of happened. I suppose I should apologize. I may dislike the human race as a whole, but my mother still taught me manners. Then again, it’s not like she could scold me because she doesn’t know, plus I am a grown man._

_You see, the thing about being high isn’t /just/ the exhilaration and the rush I get from it. It’s the fact that I get to stop. That’s it, just stop. Everything. Thinking, feeling, trying, failing, being. I get to just stop. Being me isn’t as easy as people think, nor as straight-laced. Yes, I am a genius with a superior intellectual ability and an unshakeable mindset most the time. But apparently (as Mycroft and my parents tell me) I was a severely emotional child. Emotion has always been taught to me by my elder brother as being a sort of evil, unnecessary, a fraying rope when you need it most. That it will always let you down and always get in the way of the intellectual core of everything, the important information normal people never see when they are clouded with it._

_I began writing these digital entries at a suggestion from my old therapist...from the last time I detoxed. Something about letting my heart speak or some crap; ugh. But she wasn’t all wrong. I won’t outwardly express “feelings” to anyone ever if I can help it. Apparently, that’s just the curse of being human. It’s not only that though, it’s the fact that when I write these, I feel as though someone is listening or rather, reading, even when they aren’t. It’s more sane than talking to a skull on the table of my tiny flat._

_I’d never EVER admit this to anyone, or even let anyone read these, but the other reason why I type these is because I have always felt stuck. Never truly whole, but two parts of a person, two parts of two different lives almost. It’s very difficult to explain. It’s as if half of me wants so badly to be this cold-hearted intellectual with all the answers, and the other half of me feels like I could still be the child my parents speak of, even if I don’t remember much from back then. I do still feel, maybe more than anyone, even myself will ever realize. But the good/bad (however you see it) part of that is that I don’t want to feel. I’m sick of feeling. Because Mycroft was right—feeling makes my life worse than the reality already is. It adds a deeper, more depressing level to it. The drugs are blissful because they numb me. That’s all I really want to be for the rest of my life, because it’s easier. Unfeeling, cold, unattached, uninvolved, intellectual...numb._

_SH }_

Sherlock sighs as he puts his laptop away and taps his fingers on the table before returning to his room. He goes over and peers out of the window, looking at the fairly impressive view of London. He feels broken and lost, despite getting his sobriety back, and wonders what he will be like as a crime-solver. Or at least a shadow of a crime-solver, no doubt he will learn quickly, but will he enjoy it? Who knows.

He decides to roam the halls and put his deduction skills to use on as many people as possible, just to assess them, make sure they’re at peak efficiency, sharpen them and hone them even more so he can stun all the morons at New Scotland Yard a couple short weeks from now.

Leaving his room again, he passes a few nurses and moves to the main area, many other residents are playing games, reading, or talking. He counts four…no, five of them that were made to come here due to some sort of blackmail, three that don’t actually have a problem and just wanted a place to stay, and one who is having an affair with one of the nurses. All the rest of them do actually have a problem, and came here the way he did, of their own accord.

Sherlock shakes his head and rubs his face, wondering how his life had turned out like this; why he was like this. Of course he wanted to be successful, he wanted to use his mind for something he could really enjoy, really feel the thrill of. Unfortunately, he has no clue what that is quite yet. You would think at twenty-nine you would know what you’d want to do with your life, but no, not him. Not Sherlock Holmes. He’s still the loser little brother depending on his big brother’s money to pay his rent and drugs to feel invigorated by something. Bollocks.

“Lestrade had better teach me something productive when I hold up my end of the deal, or there is absolutely no hope for me in this dumbed down society whatsoever, and I may as well just overdose in silent, numbed glory”, he thinks.


	4. The Pathologist, NSY, and one Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is introduced to Bart's homicide contact, Detective Inspector Lestrade and does a horrible autopsy. She reminisces about the poor girl that was on her slab and realizes it could be anyone, including her. Sherlock assists Lestrade in catching a murderer in the simplest way, and meets the repelling head of his forensics team. Lestrade takes Sherlock to clean up his appearance.

Molly stares down at the murder victim on the table. Veronica Lyle, late twenties, 5’6, 120lbs, brunette female. She has strangulation bruises around her neck and some flesh under her fingernails from presumably fighting for her life. As devastating as this case is, Molly can’t help but be a little excited to put her forensic skills to good use. Hopefully, she can shed some light on the brutality of it so that the police can capture her killer. “Most likely a spouse or boyfriend”, Molly thinks to herself. What a terrible thought, but a lot of times, that’s the horrific truth.

She performs the autopsy, and it is revealed that Veronica’s trachea was crushed, and the sclera of her eyes were bloodshot from ruptured vessels. She definitely asphyxiated to death. Her brain showed signs of a chronic hypoxic state (specifically a prolonged lack of oxygen), which also showed as inflammation in her chest, and an empty spleen. Whoever killed her must have had some sort of anger problem because it was absolutely brutal, they held her down as she struggled, then once unconscious they most likely held the position over her nose and mouth for many more minutes to cause this much damage to her organs. Molly puts the body away then goes back to the lab to examine the tissue samples from under her fingernails.

Approximately a half hour later as she peers intensely into her microscope, until she hears someone clear their throat. She looks up quickly and sees a middle-aged gentleman in a long coat standing there.

“Oh…I’m sorry, how- how can I help you?”

“Hello, you must be Doctor Hooper. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, head of the Detective unit at New Scotland Yard. I was told that you are one of the head pathologists now.”

“Y-“, she clears her throat. “Yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand but..erm..”

Lestrade chuckles. “Understood. I’ll be the contact person for NSY when it comes to homicide cases. Looks like we will be working together in an official capacity for these types of cases. I’m actually here for information about the autopsy of one Miss Veronica Lyle.”

Molly nods. “I was just examining the skin samples from under her fingernails. It seems that it was a defensive move. My findings were definitive asphyxia, someone strangled her to death. I’ll give you the skin samples to give to your department so they can match them with the perp. I know the NSY forensics team has access to the database in case they’re already in the system.”

“Thank you. You’re very diligent in your work Doctor Hooper. I heard many good things about you from Doctor Stamford. I think this will be a very productive relationship going forward. I’m glad I got the chance to pop in and meet you”, he smiles handsomely.

Molly smiles back shyly and nods. “You as well Detective Inspector. I hope my work will be able to help your department with its cases. Justice and closure are always the best thing for the families.” She places the skin samples carefully into small plastic containers and twists them closed, sealing them with orange evidence tape, then handing them to Greg.

“Ah, thanks again. These will be very helpful in finding the horrible man responsible. The poor girl...it’s just awful. I- I have three girls myself, and a boy. My oldest is a teenager now. I always teach her ways to be safe and to protect herself. Sometimes it’s sad what the world comes to, how evil human beings can be. It’s my greatest fear seeing her hurt or worse. Seeing badness every day shakes your confidence, but I also see lots of good being done which keeps me going. Take you for example. A young woman who went through probably years and years of schooling to work with the dead and in some cases with victims of terrible, unspeakable crimes. You see them in their absolute worst state, in states that most people would not be able to stomach, and that are sometimes the things of nightmares. You have innate courage and strength to do this work. Some may think that’s odd, but it is some of the most important. You can make or break a case; you can singlehandedly prove innocence or guilt in some instances. Furthermore, you must have a huge heart for dealing with all the grieving families. It takes a lot of heart and a lot of brains to do what you do, Doctor Hooper. I admire you for that.”

Molly blushes and tosses her gloves in the bin. “You can call me Molly if you like. And thank you, that means more than you know. I do this work to give closure to families too. I know what it’s like to grieve for a loved one, and if I can help people get justice in order to grieve for theirs, I will. Also, your daughters and son are in good hands, you seem like a great father from what I heard.”

Greg smiles softly and nods. “Well keep up the good work, Molly. Thanks again. I’ll get these samples over to Scotland Yard. Have a good day.”

“You as well Detective Inspector.”

“Call me Greg.”

“Right then. See you around, Greg.”

He nods and places the samples in a small evidence bag, leaving the lab.

~~~~~~~

_{The Blog of Doctor Molly Hooper – November 26, 2008_

_I had an autopsy today that was really difficult to see. It was a young girl, and she was killed (most likely) by a male acquaintance. This girl no longer has a chance at a full life because some evil bastard decided to take that from her in anger. He strangled/asphyxiated her to death. I knew nothing about her, but I know how her family reacted when they came by in the evening to identify her body. It was absolute heartbreaking...they sobbed so much. She had two sisters and her parents. I can’t imagine seeing someone you love more than anything in that horrific state. She was bruised badly, bloodshot eyes, so much internal damage from the lack of oxygen. I made sure that only her parents could ID her, that her siblings were not in the room. No use scarring them even further._

_Anyway, my point is that life is unexpected. This can be in the good ways or the bad ways. Do what you want to do while you can, and don’t let anyone dissuade you from being content with yourself. I went through a chunk of my childhood and adolescence absolutely hating myself. I had sunk deep into illness brought on by the loss of my dad, by being a victim myself, and by losing a child that lived inside me for nearly five months. The moral of my story is that even when things seem absolutely impossible, frightening, and incredulous, there is always hope. When I was at my lowest, I was forced to get help. If I didn’t, I would have lost custody of my brother. That motivated me to be a better person, to want to become a healthier person. I found that strength within myself and I made that happen. I did what I had to do._

_So for anyone out there reading this that thinks there is no hope, find that one thing you love more than anything in the world, no matter what it is, and cling to it. Use it to motivate you to ask for help. Use it to do what it takes to get better and turn your life around. My situations weren’t preventable; I was thrust into them and abused which caused my severe depression, and anorexia. The loss of my child on top of that made we want to leave this Earth. But I had my incredible little brother who happened to forget a schoolbook, and who happened to find me in time. He saved me enough for me to realize I had to save myself._

_While life is unexpected, sometimes cruel, sometimes at an all-time low, it’s still life. It’s still another day to change, another day for another chance, another day to realize that not everyone gets another. If you do, you’re one of the lucky ones, regardless of your situation. There are days where it is still a struggle, but I have faith that I’m strong enough to make it through now. Because I was given that chance, and I am given that chance every day I wake up._

_Of course, I would love to be one of those people whose life changes for the better unexpectedly. Maybe a gorgeous, intelligent, deep voiced, sexy man sweeps me off my feet, or something even more unexpected makes me even more happy to get up every day. LOL! You never know what can happen. But it’s important that you try, and you keep trying. It always gets better!_

_Remember, if you aren’t on my slab, you ARE a lucky one. Use that chance every day that you can._

_XXX Molly }_

__

~~~~~~~

Sherlock sweeps through the NSY precinct, flipping his hood off of his curly mop, and heading towards Lestrade’s office. He flops down in the chair opposite him and watches him as he finishes a phone conversation. Lestrade hangs up the phone and looks at him.

“Ah, good you’re here. What, no donuts and coffee to suck up? You were doing so well the first couple weeks.”

“Yes, well then I realized I could probably do the job of everyone here single handedly and without supervision, so...”

“Oh don’t get so cocky Sherlock. We haven’t had a case that was super interesting yet! Just wait until we have a nice juicy mystery, hm?”

“And when will that be exactly, when I’m eighty?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes and motions to him. “C’mon, what did I tell you about the sweatshirts. They don’t look professional.”

“Would you rather see the skull t-shirt I have on underneath it?”

Greg groans and rubs his face. “Look, Sherlock. You’re the brightest guy I’ve ever met, but you act like such a child. This is a professional job, and you’re my responsibility. I can’t have you running around after me wearing loungewear. You need to start to dress more appropriately, alright?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shrugs. “That would require shopping, which would require money. I refuse to ask my brother for any more money, as I dislike him enough as it is and already can’t wrap my brain around why he is so set on helping me out anyway. I assume it has something to do with my parents though. My brother never does anything out of the goodness of his heart; in fact, he doesn’t even have one. He’s more monstrous than me if you can believe that. Always claims to be the “smart one” out of the two of us.”

“Well, then how about we go after work. We can get you a few button downs, some dress trousers. Maybe even a haircut, it’s getting quite long. I have a feeling you probably clean up nice, though.”

He furrows his brow a bit and looks up at him. “Why would you do that for me? I’m just some druggie you found in an alley.”

“No, you’re a genius I found in an alley, that was down on his luck and needed help. You’re doing well now. I think it’s the least I can do to congratulate you for that.”

“Well...” Sherlock sighs, as to try to seem irritated, even though he’s grateful and touched on the inside. “I suppose if I’m going to be working with you, I’ll need to act the part like you said.”

“Good. It’s settled then. But for now, how would you like to go down to the forensics lab with me? You can meet Philip Anderson; he’s been here a couple years. He’s your age. He takes all the samples that we receive from the St. Bart’s lab, or DNA samples the pathologist takes from the autopsies, to help us solve cases. Last night there was a girl who was murdered. Her boyfriend has an alibi, but he’s our prime suspect. The lovely Doctor Hooper, the in-house pathologist at Bart’s, recovered some skin samples under the victim’s fingernails. When I give them to Anderson he can check to see if we have a DNA match in our system for the killer. However, the bad part is that if he doesn’t have a previous record, he won’t show up and we will try to get a DNA sample from her boyfriend another way. I doubt he will just give us one though.”

Sherlock nods, his interest very piqued. “Sure, let’s go down to the lab. Also, do you have a crush on this woman at Bart’s?”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “Woman? What woman?”

“The Pathologist. Doctor Hooper. You described her as “lovely”. A man doesn’t call another man lovely, so she’s a woman. A woman you seemed quite impressed with, since you pointed out that she’s the one who recovered the skin samples for you.”

“Ah.” Lestrade chuckles. “No, I don’t have a crush on her. She’s a bit young for me. She’s also around your age. I’d say maybe twenty-six, twenty-sevenish. However, she’s a pretty girl. Brunette, petite, soft-spoken. I’ll introduce you to her the next time I go to Bart’s.” He winks at Sherlock and smirks a bit as they make their way down the concrete stairs to the lab.

“Why...why...would I care what she looks like or sounds like?”

Greg laughs softly. “Because you’re a man, Sherlock. Surely, you’ve had some sort of relationship in your life, right?”

Sherlock stays awkwardly silent and clears his throat. “So...this, Philip fellow. Is he a basic idiot too?”

“My God...you’ve never been on a date before have you?”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and blushes just slightly. “Why does that make a difference, maybe I prefer not to.”

“It doesn’t make a difference. You’re just a good-looking young man, I figured you’ve probably had many prospects in your life.”

“Yeah well, being a weirdo doesn’t bode well for that kind of stuff. People don’t like me. I know their secrets, I expose their lies, I see right through people. They despise me.”

“I can see that being tough when you were school aged at least. Kids can definitely be cruel. University can be even harder. But Sherlock, if I can see the potential in you, I know I’m not the only one who will. Plus, maybe there is a girl out there who compliments your unique personality and talents. You never know.”

“Mmh, doubtful. Don’t expect anything from me. I’m heartless. Nobody wants a guy with no heart. I don’t feel the way ordinary people do. I don’t express it, and I never will. It’s a weakness. Caring is always a weakness, a fault, a glitch. It stands only for human error. Errors that I cannot afford to make if I am going to succeed in putting my mind to good use. For all intents and purposes, I am a sociopath. Rather, a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t have emotion, but I’m not crazy either. I’m just...dormant. Except for my mind. That’s all I need. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

They stop in front of a gentleman with dark hair and a sort of disgusted look on his face. A look Sherlock is all too used to seeing, and it reminds him of University all over again. Lestrade sighs, and the pale man speaks up.

“So you’re the psycho that’s been freaking everyone out for two weeks. I can see why. A sociopath? Aren’t most of your type like...in prison for crimes, yet you’re working with a Detective Inspector?”

“Anderson, play nice”, Lestrade warns, then turns and hands him the sample containers. Sherlock’s eyes cast downward for a moment when their backs are turned, feeling like he was punched in the gut. This feeling only gets worse when a beautiful young woman comes down the stairs from where they came and smiles at Greg.

“Hey Boss...oh. Hey, freak”, she snorts.

“Donovan, come on, give him a break.” Sherlock thinks back to a couple weeks ago when he first met Detective Sally Donovan and he deduced her entire life story, as well as some very embarrassing details about her personal life. She was livid and has called him “freak” ever since, as backlash.

“Why? He doesn’t deserve anything; he doesn’t even work here. Honestly, I think it’s wrong to even give him access to confidential information. It’s like you picked him up from the “broken genius” pound and made him follow you like the puppy he is.”

Anderson laughs and nudges her, then begins examining the skin samples. Sherlock blinks slowly, keeping an unamused face and forcing himself to swallow the hurt squeezing at his chest. Lestrade sighs and mutters a sorry to him under his breath, then brings him over and shows him he software, but Sherlock is more interested in the lab equipment.

When no results come up as a match, they go back upstairs towards Lestrade’s office and Lestrade sees the suspect in the lobby. He had been questioned again and released.

“Damn it”, he curses quietly. “Why can’t they catch him in the lie? His friends have been covering for him. His alibi seems strong.”

“That’s the murder suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Wait here.”

“What? No. Sherlock anything you get him to say is inadmissible because you’re not a cop.”

“I’m not questioning him. Just...wait in your office. I’ll be back soon.” Sherlock loops around the cells and comes out down that corridor, pretending to be texting on his phone and bumps into the perp.”

“What the f-!”

“Oh shit, sorry man. My bad. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Clearly”, he snarls angrily.

“Hey look...” Sherlock looks around erratically. “I’ll make it up to you, hm? I’ll buy you a drink from the vending machine. Long day of questioning, huh...me too.”

The guy’s face changes a bit, and he crosses his arms. “Yeah...what do they think you did?”

“Housebreaking. I mean, they take one look at me and assume I’m a robber, can you fucking believe their gall? They suck.”

“Yeah, fucking dicks. Alright, just get me a water then.”

“Sure mate. So, what do they think you did?” Sherlock questions as he vends two waters and hands him one.

The man shifts on his feet a bit and chugs some water. “Uhh...well, er, they think I killed my girlfriend.”

“Holy crap. Murder? Did you do it?”

“What!? No! What the fuck!”

“Sorry, sorry, I figured you didn’t. I was just conversing.”

“Are you a cop???”

“Me!? No!” Sherlock snorts and laughs. “Are you serious? Do you really think a cop would look like this? Or even be questioned by other cops? No, man.” Sherlock drinks some of his water.

“Right…right. No, I just...freaked out a bit. I’m just on edge, y’know?”

“Oh yeah totally. Like, how do you /prove/ you /didn’t/ do something, right?”

“Yeah.” He chugs the rest of his water and throws it away then looks at his buzzing phone. “My ride’s here. See ya.”

“Yeah, see you.”

The man leaves and Sherlock smirks, glancing over at Lestrade in his office. He rushes over and burst into the office. “You have gloves, I presume.”

“Huh?”

“Latex gloves. For collecting evidence. You have some, I assume.”

“Uhh yeah, why?”

“Because I just got you some DNA evidence. Now, hurry!”

Lestrade jumps up and snaps on some gloves and grabs an evidence bag. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I’m also a very good manipulator. In other words, a good actor. All it took was for me to play “mates” with him, get him to drink something, and then as morons do, he threw it away in the bin. Now you have saliva. You’re welcome.”

Lestrade laughs and pats Sherlock’s back, then goes over to the bin and retrieves the water bottle, placing it carefully into the evidence bag. “Well I’ll be damned, that was a clever trick. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and smirks. “Because you’re an idiot, remember?”

~~~~~~~

_{The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – November 26, 2008_

_I hate Anderson. I hate Donovan. Sometimes I wish my mind were a lethal weapon where everyone I hated just dissipated into air. Anyway, I helped catch a murderer today. I didn’t have to deduce much other than he was a total prick, but in pure moronic form, he was easily tricked into giving us his DNA, which will now be used against him since the victim’s fingernails had his skin under them. Honestly, criminals are the dumbest class of people I have ever met. I have yet to meet one intelligent criminal, but I’m sure there are at least a couple out there._

_So the sad story of the girl that was choked to death by her boyfriend has a somewhat happy ending. Isn’t that what everyone wants?_

_Justice. It’s the kind of word and action that makes you feel more powerful than you already are, if you are. Just saying it gives a sense of strength and power. But while justice defines a good outcome, it does not erase the fact that a person was murdered. If I were a normal man that would sadden me or make me think of the family, but unfortunately, I am not. In my mind, death is just a part of life. Hardly anyone knows when the end is near, and I suppose that’s one of the best things about life. Regardless of whether you are murdered or whether you die naturally or of disease, everyone dies. In fact, that is one of the only things you can truly count on in this life. Yes, I suppose it’s horrible for the family. But dwelling about it isn’t going to bring her back. It’ll only make their own time on the Earth worse._

_Yes, I know, I’m a dickhead._

_Putting that aside, Lestrade took me to get new “professional” clothing today. I have some fresh button downs, black trousers, as well as black shoes. Unfortunately as payment for this, he also forced me to sit through a haircut. So maybe I did need one, and maybe my untamable curls are a lot more doable now, but I dislike the barber. He never fails to keep droning on and on about the most trivial things that frankly, I don’t give two shits about. Maybe I should be polite and pretend that I’m listening or that it even interests me, but I don’t. I let him do his job, and I get out of there as fast as possible. I hate people touching me. Getting my hair washed by another man just makes my skin crawl for some reason, so I’m just glad that it is done with. I’m not exactly thrilled to have to be dressing like I have a job when I really don’t, but this is the first chance I’ve had of figuring out what I am going to do in my life so I have to try at least. If I don’t, I will stay a junkie loser for the rest of my life. And that doesn’t seem much fun to live through._

_SH }_


	5. Cursed Christmases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly celebrate Christmas in completely different ways, both begrudgingly.

Molly hums and finishes her third autopsy of the day, Christmas Day to be exact. That’s always something you can count on; the influx of deaths on and around major holidays; Christmas especially. The holiday where the lonely, the ill, and the desperate sought death as their reprieve. Quite a horrible fact, but it keeps Molly busy as to escape that reality of her own.

Usually she would spend Christmas with Meena and her family, but this year Meena was going on holiday to the States to visit her boyfriend, who resided in Texas. This left Molly without any plans, so of course she chose to work double shifts at the morgue; her colleagues all had families or children to celebrate with, and if it had been her with reason to celebrate, she would hope someone in her current position would offer as well.

Singing along to a few Christmas carols coming from the small radio in her office, Molly settles into her desk chair and begins the paperwork on the findings from her autopsies. She writes swiftly and professionally, sighing softly to herself. As much as she enjoyed her work, she wishes that she had at least someone to talk to today. She knows pitying herself won’t get her anywhere and never would, but a part of her still thinks she deserves to wallow in loneliness for even a little bit, jealous of everyone and their amazing families and friend groups.

Molly finishes up her work within an hour and locks up. She makes her way down the drab hallway to the women’s locker room and goes in, slipping on her winter coat, scarf, and gloves, and grabbing her purse and car keys. Moments later she trudges through the newly fallen snow to her little car, knowing it will take a while to get it going in this sort of weather.

After about an hour struggling with her car, and a twenty-five minute drive home, Molly finally gets inside her flat and sheds her outdoor clothing. After taking a nice bath and settling into her cozy pjs, she makes herself a steaming cup of hot cocoa and settles down with her laptop to write in her blog.

_{ The Blog of Doctor Molly Hooper – December 25, 2008_

_Merry Christmas all! I hope you are having a lovely one. I’m spending mine alone again. Well, maybe not totally alone. I did have all the cadavers in the morgue. I got a lovely phone call from my brother this morning though. I was so happy to hear his voice for the first time in over six months. He’s doing well, though I still worry. He thanked me for the lovely blanket and the rest of the care package that I sent him as a Christmas gift. Despite being at war, he has corades to celebrate with; something I'm a bit jealous of._

_It’s holidays like Christmas where I wish I had a boyfriend. Cozying up by a fire, listening to Christmas carols, opening gifts, and drinking eggnog and punch...sometimes it really sucks being alone. Especially when you are the type of person who doesn’t exactly fit in with anyone. I suppose I will meet more people as I gain more experience at work. Plus, when I save enough money, I am going to buy my own home and hopefully I will have some nice neighbors. Who knows, right?_

_You may wonder why I am writing a post on Christmas, since the few of you that do read are probably with family. Well, because there isn’t much else for me to do. No family equals no oodles of gifts or cheer. Just me. So in order to distract myself, I write this blog and watch the snow fall. I know, not very interesting. Anyone up for company?...I didn’t think so._

_X X X Molly }_

~~~~~~~

Sherlock settles down on the of his parents’ home, scrolling through his mobile. He absolutely dreaded Christmas. Every single little thing about it. Mummy called him a grinch, but not as much as she called Mycroft Scrooge. They rarely practiced religion when he and Mycroft were little, and in their adulthood, they had forgotten about it altogether. As his parents get older it seems that they have begun to practice more, however this is not rubbing of on either he or Mycroft.

His father enters the room with a glass of eggnog, setting it on the table in front of him. “I know your life is busy now, and I know you don’t have much interest being here but thank you for coming. It means a whole lot to your mother. You know how she loves to see her boys on Christmas. I also wanted to say that we are very proud of you. Mycroft told us briefly about your internship at Scotland Yard.” His father sits next to him and Sherlock briefly puts his phone down, glancing over at him. “I’m glad you are getting your life together, Now, I know I may not have that fantastical brain that you and your brother have gotten from your mother; I know that I’m just a boring, ordinary bloke. But as a father I could not be prouder of either of you. You’re going places too, Sherlock. Call it intuition, but I just know you’re going to be great at this investigative work. I’m so happy you’re using your talents to do some good in the world. I really am.”

Sherlock swallows and blushes lightly, sighing and looking at his father. “Thanks Dad...” Benjamin smiles and gently hugs his younger son, who hesitantly returns it. Though he would never admit it, Sherlock quite enjoys the company of his father and ordinary people as compared to Mycroft. It makes him feel quite normal as well. He gently takes the eggnog and sips it. Hm, homemade. He could always tell his mother’s from the bottled version. “So...what about you; thinking of retiring soon?”

“Oh heaven’s…I don’t know. Maybe another year or two. I know that we are well off, but it gives me something to do. Plus, your mother took a part-time job at the local high school as a substitute Math teacher. She’s thrilled. If I were home, nobody would be around anyway, so I may as well work. Keeps my older, ordinary mind working.”

Sherlock nods slowly. As much as he hates the holiday cheer and the stigma of Christmas, it does give him a chance to catch up on what is going on in his parent’s lives. He supposes he /should/ care, even a little bit. Especially about his father. Sherlock knows how brilliant and strong-willed his mother is, but he does worry about his father. He’s simple, gentle, easily manipulated or stepped on. Plus, he’s has a stroke before. His father was always the one to give in first when they were little, always spoiled them; his Mum was stricter with them. Benjamin always has a nice calmness to him that rubs off on everyone he meets. It’s always a welcome aura of calm for Sherlock and his not so ordinary mind. Maybe that’s why he prefers being around his father, despite the fact that he is clearly his Mum’s favorite child.

He has nothing against his mother, she is just a bit too much like he and Mycroft. Strong-willed, opinionated, outspoken, meticulous. She can be exhausting. Sherlock wonders if this is how ordinary people feel around him. Of course he has no desire to compete with her; being his mother, she would win every time, she could be an absolute bear if provoked. That can come out in either annoyance or protectiveness; the only difference is whether it’s used against them or for them.

Sherlock believes that the main reason she has been more annoyed with Mycroft lately is because he took Uncle Rudy’s place about a year ago with the family’s state of affairs. Joy never really liked her brother Rudy, as he was too snobbish and uncaring for her taste. Of course this is also the reason why he chose Mycroft to take on his role when he passed; he’s nearly a personality double for him. Mummy dislikes how put offish Mycroft is now, especially that he decided to abide by Rudy’s will and step into the role that was clearly made for him. After all, it was Rudy that got Mycroft the internship with the government all those year ago and moved him up the ladder rather quickly. He played a large role in the security and integrity of London. Little did they know at the time that he knew of his diagnosis, and that it was the reason he chose Mycroft to shadow him and learn all of the secrets of the trade, and of the government that is strictly confidential. Unfortunately for the family, Rudy had lived another twelve years. Fortunately for Mycroft, he soaked up lots more information from him in those twelve years, to become an integral part of the governmental national security and integrity team.

Benjamin sighs and smiles. “Dipped into that silly head of yours again, didn’t you, son?”

“Hm?” Sherlock blinks and realizes his father is still there. “Oh...uh, yeah sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s fascinating to watch you know. I used to stare at your mother when she’d so that. She still does sometimes. It’s still nice to watch, plus, she’s too beautiful not to” he grins.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and scoffs, eliciting a chuckle from his Dad. “Yes, yes, well she is your wife.”

“And your mother. Really Sherlock, I hope you find a nice woman someday. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a sweet, smart, ordinary miss that can make you feel the way your mother and I feel together. It’s true what they say, opposites do attract. Though, we aren’t total opposites. You do have to have some things in common. It’s better that way. Makes for good conversation and nice chemistry. Plus, you may just be our only chance at grandchildren in the future. Between you and me…” he leans closer, “I don’t have much faith that Mycroft would have children.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide but blank. “I don’t er-..”

“You’ll come around, son. Life will take you by the neck and shove you in the gutter and you will go through hell. That’s when you’ll realize you’d rather not end up alone. Believe me…one day. You may not be in the right head space to be able to make anyone happy right now or even in the near future, but some day after you’ve been through all the horrific experiences you could possibly handle, there will be someone that stands out to you that you’ll realize you cannot live without. I may not be a genius like you, but I know you son; I know you on the inside. I do know that much.”

Sherlock looks over his face; he’s not making a joke. He genuinely believes what he’s saying. Maybe he’s going senile, though he’s a bit young for that. “Dad, I highly doubt that. Firstly, I have no desire to “share a life” with anyone but myself. I’m the only one who understands me. Secondly, no woman would be able to handle me regardless, plus they’re too much work. So there’s that. Sorry to break it to you, but I think your chances of grandchildren of any kind are slim to none.”

Benjamin grins, a glint in his eye. “If you say so, son. You’ll work with many, many people in your line of work.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t want to work with Scotland Yard. Well, not in an official sense. I want to be a freelance detective. I’ve already solved about four cases for NSY on my own, though of course I let D.I Lestrade take the credit because well…he er...helped me figure out what I wanted to do so to speak. I think I’ll just post an ad online and start taking small cases for myself. Sort of like a private investigator. I’ve been “playing” deductions with Mycroft since I was little. I think it’s time for me to take that public and solve cases for the adrenaline rush that it gives, so it’ll take my mind off of…” he trails off.

His father gently pats his hand. “The drugs? I do worry about you with your history. I’m glad you’re more responsible now. Your mother and I worried ourselves to death when you were a teenager, Will.”

“Dad…”

“Sherlock. Sorry. I know, I know, you hate “William”. My fault, I slipped.”

Sherlock sighs and gently squeezes his hand. “It’s okay…just try to remember. And yeah...the drugs. I miss the rush that they give me, but I know that they mess me up so much that I can’t focus on much else. I can’t really do that anymore. I know Mum and Mycroft help me out financially but I’m sick of that. If there’s anything I never want to be, it’s dependent on anyone.”

He nods and smiles softly. “Soon you won’t be. My sons are successes. I know you will be before it even happens because you’re a Holmes. You’ll do the family name a great service, Sherlock. I know the little kid that’s still inside you, and I know that you can do a whole lot of good.”

Mycroft walks in and clears his throat, sneering. “That’s quite funny, seeing as he’s living in practically a dump and living off of Mummy and big bro’s money. Not to mention how irritating he is. What makes you think that the second he decides to deduce someone to solve a case they won’t throw him out? Plus, criminals are dangerous. He’d probably get himself killed because he’s pretty slow.”

Sherlock grimaces annoyedly. “We were having a private conversation, “Mykey”

Mycroft looks disgusted. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Well you deserved it for acting like a child.”

“/I/ acted like a child?? You’re the one without a real job or a decent house!”

“At least I’m paving my own way! You’re the one who clung to Uncle Rudy’s coattails because you couldn’t get a job by yourself!”

“I was the only one in this family smart enough to even be thought of for that job, it surely wasn’t you, the family idiot!”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, or Mummy wouldn’t hate you.”

Mycroft sets his jaw and Sherlock crosses his arms. Their father steps between them. “Boys, enough. It’s Christmas. We all have our troubles, but can we please just have a nice holiday. Your mother hates it when you argue, and frankly, so do I. Just be civil. Please. Mycroft, go help your mother prepare the table, hm?”

Mycroft gapes. “Why can’t Sherlock do it??”

“Myc, now”, Benjamin gives him an attempt at a stern look. Sherlock smirks and sticks his tongue out and Mycroft huffs annoyedly and saunters to the dining area.

Turning to Sherlock he crosses his arms, nearly mimicking him. “As for you, I know how tempting it may be for you to annoy him. It seems a bit too easy these days, but that does not mean that you can, or you should. If you are going to be a responsible adult, you need to be above the pettiness. Look, I know that where you are in your life, things aren’t going to be easy. But you’re going to get through it, and you’ll make a name for yourself if you stay on a good path. Don’t let anyone dissuade you from that, alright? Not even Mycroft.”

Sherlock ruffles his hair in annoyance and sighs. “Yeah I know...alright.”

“Right then. I can smell the turkey, so it must be out of the oven, Let’s have a nice family dinner, hm? We don’t have the best record at those so I would really like tonight to be a good one. Promise me?”

Sherlock groans a bit. “Okay, I promise.”

“Good boy, come on”, he pats his back.

About twenty minutes into dinner, there’s a loud crash near their front door and a swarm of agents with guns rush into the dining area. Their parents gasp and stand up. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

The leader lowers his gun and the other do as well. “We’re here for Mycroft Holmes, it’s a matter of National Security! He needs to come with us immediately.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs. “A phone call would have done just fine; you didn’t have to swarm the house gentlemen.”

~~~~~~~

_{The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – December 25, 2008_

_Yes, MI-6 swarmed my parents’ house today and my mother nearly had a heart attack with the amount of rage she hurled at Mycroft. I must say, it was one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life! So much for clearing that “Christmas Dinner episode” record. I’m telling you, it’s a curse. We haven’t had one single enjoyable Christmas since I was about twelve. Every year something happens. It’s come to the point where honestly the only reason why I bother to show up is just to see what happens that year, it’s usually really funny. It’s usually Mycroft’s fault with his big important job and everything. However, last year I decided that I wanted to foster a puppy and I brought it to Christmas dinner. Mind you, this thing was really small. Unfortunately, it happened to be quite the climber because the thing ate the whole turkey and half the sides before anyone even noticed where it had gone. He further went on to vomit all over my mum’s good rug. Long story short, I no longer fostered that creature. He was a /menace/, and I love dogs generally._

_The year before that, my father had a small stroke; not funny. The year before that, my Aunt Dottie died, and instead of dinner we had to attend the funeral. She was a good person, my dad’s oldest sister, even my Mum loved her. She would always gift us these HORRIBLE hand-knit Christmas sweaters that we were forced to say thank you for. The year before that, Uncle Rudy barged in drunk and he and my Mum got into it about Mycroft; for some reason Mycroft dragged me upstairs and locked us in my old room while they screamed; he’s so fucking weird, you’d think he was bothered by it, but Mycroft isn’t bothered by anything. I wanted to hear what they were fighting about but he wouldn’t let me; treated me like a damn child. He’s such a bugger! It did remind me a bit of Christmas when I was like, seventeen. Uncle Rudy had come over and spoken to my parents about something and they ended up crying their eyes out. Mycroft had made me go upstairs with him so I couldn’t hear. I never did know what made them so upset to this day._

_As far as siblings go, I don’t think the Holmes family has a good record at great relationships among them either. I suppose every family has their troubles though. Just another reason why I never /want/ one. I swear if I ever had a child like me, I would slap him so hard upside the head, I’d fix him to being ordinary. I was a horrible teen, but I can admit that. At least I didn’t eat everything in sight like Mycroft though. I’m convinced that Uncle Rudy forced Myc to lose weight in order for him to will him his job. He was a very mean and strict man like that. What’s even more pathetic is that he did. Luckily, I have a very fast metabolism. Even when I did eat quite a lot as a teen, I never gained much. Now eating isn’t very interesting, I only really do it to stay alive for the time being._

_Anyway, I’m thinking of becoming a private detective. That sounds so cliché though. I need a title that only I have, something that sounds cool, but not corny. Something that sounds professional without the stigma attached to freelancers. I want people to consult me regarding their cases._

_Oh! Did I mention that I started a chemistry blog? I did. A few weeks ago. It’s thescienceofdeduction.co.uk and I upload my findings and deductions on compounds and chemicals. So far, I have differentiated between about 29 types of tobacco ash! I wonder how many I’ll end up with, the search continues for new kinds._

_Anyway, back to a title….how about consulting detective? That sounds legitimate. I think I’ll go with that._

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Only one in the world, as I’m inventing the job!_

_-SH }_


	6. And Thus It Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes has finally alluded to the fact that he must shadow Lestrade if he wants to know certain tricks of the trade to become what he has deemed a "Consulting Detective". This includes getting to know one particular staffer at Bart's Hospital. Sherlock is taken aback when faced with a woman who can see through him as easily as he can see through others.

A few days after Christmas, Sherlock floats into New Scotland Yard, making a beeline for Lestrade’s office. They had been texting back and forth about the possibility of Sherlock freelancing for the homicide unit, and him branching out on his own since he had no desire to be employed by anyone but himself. He has been solving nearly all of Lestrade’s cases since he began looking at the evidence Lestrade would provide when visiting him in rehab, around July. Most of them were simple, revenge or love fueled murders; quite easy to solve even without going to the scene.

Greg looks up and takes his feet down from on top of his desk as he pops the last bit of his croissant into his mouth. “Sherlock! I got a good one you may be interested in. Today will be a great day for ya!”

“Good, I was hoping you had something for me, I was bored out of my mind.”

“Male, early twenties found dead in the park this morning, one bullet to the chest. No witnesses that we have found, and no sign of foul play other than the shot. Though get this, there was a switchblade found at the scene as well. No cuts on him though.”

Sherlock nods and scoops up the file, briefly looking through it. Greg smirks a bit then clears his throat.

“Hm?” Sherlock looks up confused.

“Nothing, just...we should probably go to the morgue and take a look at the body. If you want to freelance, you’ll have to have connections there as well.”

“Yes, that seems pretty obvious. I don’t know why you were so adamant that I haven’t needed to go to the morgue before now. I know you’re the contact and all, but I am a graduate chemist and I know my way around a body.”

“Well, aren’t you a charmer then.”

Sherlock scoffs and crosses his arms. “Is this about that cadaver girl?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Always.”

“Yes, it is about Dr. Hooper. She seems like a real sweet girl. A bit shy, sensitive, but very smart. I don’t want you saying or doing anything to put her off. Especially because if you want access when you create your own…agency, she’s the one that will have say as to if you are granted access. She’s held in very high esteem by her higher up, Dr. Stamford, who you’ll also meet.”

“I’m a pretty good actor as well, as you’ve witnessed many times.”

“Yeah, well again, she’s smart. Not a stupid criminal, I’m sure she’d be able to sniff out an act. Just...be nice.”

“When am I not nice? I’m nice, I’m just very blunt and to the point, I’m not going to skirt around something obvious in fear of someone’s feelings being hurt. That’s ridiculous.”

“Sherlock.”

He groans. “Alright, fine. I’ll be...toned down.”

“Good. Shall we go then?”

“I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

Lestrade nods and gets up, grabbing his own billowy coat before they head to St. Bart’s morgue.

~~~~~~~

Molly sighs softly, looking down at the young man on the slab. It’s not really fair how most of the people who end up in her morgue are her age or younger. Tragic really. One bullet wound; of course he died from it, but he had a few things wrong with his brain as well. Maybe NSY could help her piece some of the missing information together to solve this one. She hears the door of the morgue open and she looks up as she re-covers the body. Her eyes fall first on Detective Inspector Lestrade, then on the gorgeous young man who follows him in. Molly can’t help but stare at how utterly -beautiful- he is for a man. It’s nearly breathtaking. “Blink Molly, blink!”, she scolds herself internally. She blinks and clears her throat, plastering a too eager smile upon her face.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade! How may I be of service to you today? Come for info on John Doe from this morning?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I have, though I wanted to introduce you to my protégé, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He’s been shadowing me and wants to dive into a crime focused career of his own someday. He’s a proper genius, despite his many flaws.”

Molly swallows a bit and can feel herself sweating as she looks sweetly at the stone-faced man in front of her. She could nearly drown in his gorgeous, oceanic eyes, and the need to wrap her fingers in those incredible dark curls of his sneaks into her mind. “My God, he is one gorgeous man”, she thinks. “Oh, hello Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Molly Hooper. I-I’m pleased to meet your acquaintance.” Molly internally scolds herself for stuttering, a bad habit that rears its ugly head when she is nervous. She holds out her hand to him, lucky that the morgue is cold, so her palm isn’t sweaty.

Sherlock looks over the petite woman, deductions flying into his head. _{single, alone, dead parents, victim, shy, brilliant, distant from relatives, miscarriage, broken, self-conscious, organized, loving, kind, acquainted with death, helpful, good baker, loss, focused, neat, beautiful…}_ Sherlock blinks slightly astounded by that last one, but realizes some of them nearly makes him pity her, or even feel slightly protective of her, which is utterly ridiculous as he just met the woman. He extends his hand and takes her smaller one into his own, shaking it briefly, before yanking it away when it begins to tremble slightly, a known sign of his need for some sort of stimulant. “You as well. Er…please, call me Sherlock.”

Molly nods, noticing his trembling hand. Before she can say anything, Lestrade glances at him oddly and clears his throat, then takes her aside. Sherlock can hear them begin to discuss the victim in the background, but he isn’t quite catching their words, too distracted by the buzzing need in his veins. Rehab was one thing, but the addiction never truly leaves you.

Looking for a distraction, Sherlock begins to circle around the morgue like a piranha, familiarizing himself with the placement of everything, and taking in the way Molly’s desk is neat and tidy in her little office off of the morgue, which leads to what looks to be a laboratory. For some reason, his eyes seem to settle onto the face of one Doctor Molly Hooper for what seems like minutes. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Sherlock spins around to face Greg. “Hm?”

“I said, did you catch any of that?”

“Oh…um…sorry, I was a bit distracted. Just, taking in the...just looking around.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question him. “Molly was just taking us through the autopsy findings. He was identified earlier by his fingerprints as Shane Lawson. Had a record for petty crimes as a teen. His mother is coming to properly identify the body in a little while.”

Sherlock nods and looks back at Molly. Molly blushes profusely, noticing Sherlock’s eyes on her. Clearing her voice she repeats her findings. “Right, erm...one bullet wound, but he also had a high amount of alcohol in his system.” She moves around the autopsy table and slips latex gloves on, lifting up the victim’s hands. His fingers are nearly blackened. “Horrible frostbite on his fingers and toes, though his fingers are much worse, it appears he wasn’t wearing any gloves. There is also slight damage to his frontal lobe. That can be caused by excessive drinking. I’m thinking he was in the beginning stages of alcoholism. Most heavy drinkers and people with a longer history of alcoholism have much more damage to the frontal lobe, and they can usually come off as a functioning person. I just don’t see that with this man, though the damage was certainly beginning on his brain when I examined it.”

Lestrade nods. “Also, it turns out, his fingerprints were the only ones on the switchblade. But there was no gun found at the scene or in any of the surrounding areas. So how does this young kid with a knife end up with a bullet hole inside him?”

Sherlock soaks in all of the information and moves over to the autopsy table, examining the victim and making mental notes. “Mhh...you said he had slight frontal lobe damage from drinking?”

Molly nods, her ponytail bobbing a bit. Sherlock smirks, pleased with himself. “I’m quite surprised even you couldn’t work this out, Lestrade.”

Greg groans. “What? Just tell us...” He turns toward Molly and rolls his eyes. “It’s quite incredible how he can paint such a clear picture and solve a case. So, go on then Sherlock, impress us”, he exclaims, turning back to Sherlock.

“With pleasure.” Sherlock circles around the body, pointing things out as he speaks.

“Young man, budding alcoholic, goes out for a drink at one of the local bars. Takes a cab because he is used to drinking. Maybe he goes with friends, maybe alone, doesn’t really matter. Ends up drinking way too much, as he has become accustomed to doing, though his body isn’t totally used to it yet. Gets drunk out of his head, and undoubtedly got kicked out when the bar closed. Being an inexperienced alcoholic in the first stages, he is more than a bit compromised as he stumbles out of the establishment, most likely forgetting his coat and gloves. By the time he notices, the bar is closed and locked. It was below freezing last night, wouldn’t take too long for frostbite to set in. Assuming his wallet and phone were in his coat, he can’t call for a cab, so what does he do? He decides to walk home because he doesn’t have any other option. He obviously doesn’t live to close to the bar, or else he wouldn’t have needed a cab to get there, so in his attempt to get home he goes through the park. Maybe he sees it as a shortcut in his drunken stupor. I assume he came across someone in the park, and there was an altercation of sorts. Drunk and stumbling, he takes out the blade from his pocket. Maybe he was trying to threaten them for a coat or for money or anything else to get home. Getting closer and closer with the knife, and clearly unpredictable due to his compromised nature, as well as the effect the frostbite is having on his desperation, I have no doubt the other party felt his life was threatened and just happened to have a gun on him. Most likely they warned him, and the man kept advancing with the knife, so they shot him in self-defense. It’s not usually an easy thing, killing a person, so I assume they ran back from wherever they came from with their gun, pretty terrified. This young man died there, dropping the knife when he was shot and bleeding out. Although, frostbite would have killed him if he had been out there a few hours more anyway.”

Molly gapes, in awe of his abilities. Lestrade has a look of shock on his face as well. “Well then...I suppose it’s no use trying to find the owner of the bullet then.”

“Not really, it would be a waste of police time. Plus, I’ve no doubt this man would have drank himself to death by the time he was forty so really, this was a quicker way to go. Much cleaner too. God only knows the trouble he would’ve caused the next twenty years if he weren’t on the slab now.”

“Sherlock”, Greg scolds. “He was a young man. He has a grieving family. Remember we discussed…softness?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Just the truth, hard to hear or not. Softness won’t change the outcome, and honestly the family should have cared when he were alive and maybe this could’ve been prevented. Funny how most people mourn only once someone dies, yet fail to help them when they are alive, most times having the knowledge that they desperately need the intervention. It’s like they wait for them to die, just to incite pity.”

Greg sighs a bit and rubs his face. Molly chews her lip, knowing that he may feel that way about his own family. She may not be a genius, but she knows the human body, and Sherlock Holmes is or was definitely an addict of sorts himself. The trembling in his hands and the inability to stand still gave it away almost immediately to her. This may be why this case riling him up so much. Molly bets that most people see him as this terrible harsh, brash, rude man. But it’s overwhelmingly obvious to her that he has been through a lot of things that most likely made him this way, just as she has. They just handle their inner battles differently.

Lestrade collects a copy of the findings from Molly, and heads towards the door, “You coming?”

“I’ll meet you back at Scotland Yard. I think I should acquaint myself with the way Doctor Hooper handles her morgue, just so that I can prepare myself in the future as well.”

Greg smirks a bit and nods, cradling the files to his chest as he leaves through the double doors. Sherlock can feel the nervousness and the tension emanating off of the petite specialist across from him.

Molly swallows hard, trying to conceal how she reacts to him, scolding herself for even being attracted to an addict. She does not need any more horrific relationships, or self-destructive men. She is past that part of her life. Crushing on this man would not do her an ounce of good. But damn, she can’t exactly help how her entire being reacts to their proximity.

Sherlock snickers. “Well?”

“Huh?” Molly’s head shoots up, meeting his kaleidoscope eyes again.

“Well, aren’t you going to explain to me the rules or whatever? I don’t plan on shadowing Lestrade for long. I am branching out. I’m going to be a consulting detective. I’m sure there will be rules since I don’t work for the Yard in an official capacity.”

“I’m sorry a-a consulting detective?”

Sherlock grins. “Yes. The only one in the world, I’ve invented the job. For myself.”

“Oh, well that sounds...interesting. What exactly is that though?”

“Basically when the police are out of their depth or over their heads and can’t give a good case the attention it deserves, or they’re just stupid enough to have no idea how to go about it, people can consult me to solve their cases instead.”

“Wow. Like a one man show?”

“Yes, but not completely. Obviously, I need vital resources such as NSY, and of course you.”

Molly can feel her face burning red again. “M-Me? Wh-…what do you mean me?”

“You have a laboratory. I’ll need use of it fairly regularly, I’m sure. Also, your morgue is the place my victims will end up most the time, so I’ll need access to this place as well. You are in charge of the morgue on a daily basis, so in the simplest terms, yes, I’ll need you. You’ll be a great asset, and I don't doubt you will have to sign off on any of the paperwork or information I am to take out of this building, so I don’t find myself arrested for having confidential information in my possession. That would really put a damper on things.”

“R-right...um…well, yes I-I suppose you could use the lab sometimes as long as I’m there to supervise. Lestrade mentioned to me a few days ago that you’ve met Mike and er...he’s my boss so I’ll certainly have to clear it with him too but it’s not a problem for me. Though like I said, I’d have to supervise, since you’re not an employee with an access badge.”

“I’d have no problem with your supervision, Doctor Hooper. I can assure you I’m used to people looking over my shoulder.”

Molly nods slowly, putting the body away and tossing her gloves, then shyly wringing her hands. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, sending a text on his mobile, then pocketing it. “I suppose.”

“Well...I...I apologize if this seems too personal, but...I noticed your hands shaking earlier, and other signs of addiction. I was just um...wondering if you were okay?”

Sherlock stares at her in awe and shock for a moment, not used to anyone else being quite as observant as himself, as he thought he hid it fairly well. “Wh-why...wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You just seemed a bit jittery and I know addiction is a lifelong struggle, that it can really change a person and...you’re very brilliant, Sherlock Holmes. I’d hate for your mind to go to waste, I’d hate for you to fall off the wagon so to speak. With whatever it is...”

“Why would you care?”, Sherlock questions slowly, genuinely puzzled.

“Like I said, you’re a brilliant man. I just witnessed what you’re capable of, and I believe you can bring closure to many, many lives and families, in a different way than I do. Plus, I know what trauma looks like too. I can tell that something has...brought you to be who you are today, in the way that it has for myself as well. Maybe I’m being too presumptuous, but if you ever need to talk to someone...I don’t have anyone to spill your secrets to. So...that’s an offer if you ever feel like it.”

“Right...”, Sherlock drawls a bit, confused, but inwardly moved by her words. “Anyway, I best be going. Oh and by the way”, he mutters, grabbing a sticky note from her desk and scribbling his number onto it. “Here is my number, I’d appreciate it if you’d text it, so I have your contact info when I begin taking cases. It would be much easier than coming down to Bart’s every time I have a tiny question.”

Molly takes it carefully and nods shyly, their eyes meeting for a few seconds again. Sherlock nods politely in acknowledgment, a boyish smirk upon his lips as he turns to leave. He swiftly pulls out his mobile into his right hand as he sweeps out of the morgue for the first of hundreds of times, thus beginning the long, arduous relationship between one Doctor Molly Hooper and one Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, unbeknownst to both parties.


	7. First Impressions & Strong Convictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly writes in her diary about her first meeting with Sherlock Holmes, an upcoming freelance detective; Sherlock Holmes writes in his journal about his first meeting with Doctor Molly Hooper, Bart's Hospital's best and newest pathologist.

_{The Blog of Doctor Molly Hooper – December 29, 2008_

_Wow…where to start? Today was a decent day in the morgue, as any other day, except with one critical change. I met HIM. HIM, being Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A young man who is shadowing Detective Inspector Lestrade, in the hopes of creating his own consultive franchise. He called himself a consulting detective. Apparently, he’s the only one in the world; invented the title himself. When the police can’t solve something, people will consult him. Oh! Did I mention that he is perfectly able to do this because he’s a genius? Like, a real-life genius. Not quite like Einstein, but extremely intelligent. He can read a crime scene or a dead body the way one can read a billboard. Easily, without any extra effort. It’s like their stories flow through him, and let me tell you, it’s totally invigorating to witness. The way he rattles off the details in his deliciously deep, velvety voice. I swear, just hearing his voice nearly makes me shudder. He is the sexiest, most handsome man that I have ever laid eyes on._

_I swore to myself that I would no longer fall for self-destructive men, especially after the ordeal with Jacob. I swore it, but this Sherlock Holmes walked in the room and metaphorically took my heart in his fist with one look. I’m not sure his presence will ever let me go, as he struck me in ways I have never felt before in my life. I do admit this sounds extremely pathetic. Can you believe he made me stutter!? I haven’t stuttered since public speaking class first year of Uni! But around this brilliantly delicious man I just become a complete puddle, and I can’t even help it. I hate when I don’t have control of myself, and he makes me absolutely lose control just by walking into the room. Once. I have met him ONCE and he has already done this to me._

_I can’t get him out of my head. I just cannot get him out of my head. You all should see him. He’s…he’s like a Greek god. Jesus...I’m blushing as I’m writing this. He has the smoothest, most flawless porcelain skin, dark almost black curls that I had to stop myself from running my fingers through since they look light as feathers, and his eyes….oh…those EYES. How can I even describe them? They are like the deepest depths of the ocean. They’re so striking! Like a deep aquamarine with hues of green and gold. You can absolutely drown in them. Hell, if I drowned in them, I’d die a happy woman._

_Like I said…he’s the most gorgeous man on the face of the planet. And now he’ll be coming around to use the morgue and the lab as a resource! I don’t know whether to be angry at the universe or take this as the biggest gift I have ever received in my life. I think its both a blessing and a curse. Of course I would like to see him as much as possible, but I don’t think I will get too much done for work if I am reduced to a blathering mess every time he is around!_

_The one good thing is that he seems pretty stoic. It’s a bit hard to read him, but I didn’t do too badly. I believe I correctly read him, but he didn’t exactly admit that I was correct. That part about staying away from self-destructive men? Well…this Greek god just happens to be a former addict. I applaud my extensive knowledge of the human body and its responses for figuring that out on my own. His hands were trembling quite so, and I could just see from the look in his eyes that he was trying a bit too hard to come off as arrogant for some reason. He was. Slightly arrogant, that is. However, he just had a look in his eye of brokenness. I don’t think he knew that I saw his moment of weakness. But I told him that if he ever needed someone to talk to, he could talk to me. I know, quite bold of me, but for a split second I forgot my nervousness and realized that he is not, in fact, a Greek god, but a human man who has demons of his own as well._

_x x x Molly }_

_~~~~~~~_

_{ The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – December 29, 2008_

_Well…where to start? Today’s case was mind numbingly simple, yet even Lestrade couldn’t seem to piece the story together. To be fair to him, I suppose filling in the blanks isn’t exactly his strong suit, he is too used to only working with scenes that have zero missing evidence. Where is the fun in that if there is no real mystery to solve? I thrive off of the adrenaline of solving what seems to be unsolvable to New Scotland Yard. I have known Lestrade for three years now, and while I am admittedly grateful for all the support he has given me (even if I would never say that out loud), I am looking forward to venturing out of his shadow. Pun intended._

_Lestrade finally brought me to Bart’s morgue today, and I met the cadaver girl he’s always talking to me about. I have told him multiple times that I am not interested in forming or getting into a relationship with anyone, but he’s a simple and ordinary man, so he just doesn’t get it. My mind craves work, if not drugs, and a relationship would probably make me want to shoot myself in the face with the level of closeness and touchy-feely vibes of one. Too emotional and intimate for me. No thank you._

_I must say however, that Doctor Hooper was certainly impressive in her own right. She certainly knows her way around a cadaver, and I can definitely see why Doctor Stamford regards her as his best pathologist, despite being young and new at her job. She is exquisitely brilliant at it, and the way she handles the deceased with such intrinsic care is actually quite invigorating to watch. I don’t believe I have had the good fortune of meeting a woman as brilliant as her before._

_The thing about Molly…that’s Dr. Hooper’s first name…is that despite being brilliant and confident while speaking in a professional manner, she is absolutely out of her element in the socialization department. Not once did she trip over her words when describing the autopsy to us, but the moment that she had to speak to me alone, she kept stuttering. Maybe it’s a nervous impediment, but I’m not exactly sure why she would be so nervous. I know I can be an arrogant ass, but I was, as I promised Lestrade, toned- down, and I don’t thing I said anything rude to her._

_In all honesty, I don’t think I could have been totally rude to her even if I wanted to today. As easily as I deduced the dead man on the slab, this Doctor Molly Hooper deduced me. I must say I was in so much shock, I did not know how to accurately respond so…I didn’t. I don’t believe that anyone else has ever been able to read me, (except Mycroft, ugh), so of course I was taken aback. She’s this fragile looking, petite, little, woman, that just happens to have quite an impressively extensive knowledge of the human body, death, chemistry, and forensics as I do. Not only did she read me accurately, but she was cute while doing so! The nerve! She even told me that I could come to her if I needed to /talk/. Why would I need to exploit my…*feelings* to anyone? Gross._

_…It took me a few minutes, but I just processed that I typed the word “cute” in regard to a certain pathologist. Okay, so I may be mostly a brain, but as a begrudging human being, I /can/ still notice when someone is attractive. It does not mean that I personally am attracted to her, it just means that I can admit that she is attractive in general. I’m sure there are many men who have fallen for her perfectly curved lips, or her big, brown, doe eyes, or what looks to be healthy chestnut auburn tresses (if it weren’t in a ponytail to avoid a brush with formaldehyde), or even the way the apples of her cheeks flush slightly for certain things. Not to mention the way her voice is naturally melodic and soothing. Yes, I am sure many men are vying for her attention, as they should. She is quite a woman, and quite a pathologist too. I already have an immense amount of respect for her, and for her work. Relationships are just not my area, and never will be. Maybe if I were any other man, possibly. But alas, that’s just not for me._

_SH }_


	8. On A Wednesday, In a Café...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly sees Sherlock in Speedy's cafe working on a case and is mesmerized by him. However, the young detective does not have many social cues; Sherlock sneaks peeks at Molly, but she is none the wiser; Sherlock contains his feelings.

Molly settled into her seat and stirred her coffee again, blowing on the steam that swirled above the surface, which signaled that it was still too piping hot to drink. She was seated in the small corner booth of Speedy’s café. Having woken up long before her alarm this morning, she had gotten ready for work and decided to stop into her favorite breakfast place, since she knew Mrs. Hudson liked to chat as well. What she had not been expecting, however, was a certain tall, dark, and curly-haired newbie detective, sitting across the room, opposite of her own table. He had his small laptop and dozens of morbid crime scene photos laid out on the table and in his hand. Molly watches him leaf through them, looking completely engrossed.

“He’s so odd”, she thinks to herself, then quickly shakes it off. “What am I even saying? I’m just as morbid as he is. I just don’t bring photos of dead people and gore into crowded cafés”, she chuckles to herself. Blowing on her coffee again softly, and finally taking a sip, she continues to gaze at him.

“He’s just…/so/ beautiful. How can a man be that beautiful? It’s unfair. Completely, totally unfair. Absolutely ruthless that he gets to be that gorgeous”, she thinks. “He’s so…dark. So mysterious. He does it so freaking well too. I wish I knew what was going on in that crazy brain of his. It’s incredible how he can read things as if they were a book or a magazine. Unbelievable almost.”

Molly spends the next three-quarters of an hour glancing over at him in awe, playing a game within her head about what she believes him to be thinking about. Once the last droplets of her coffee are cold, she gets up and leaves a tip on the table. She wants to go over and say hello to him, but even the first time she met him she knew that he would always make her flustered, and the last thing she wants to do is stutter in front of him. She always feels stupid when she trips over her words. Especially when she likes someone, though she doesn’t remember falling for someone as hard or as fast as she has fallen for him. Her attraction to the bad boy types was always a delicate spot within her. Of course, it’s not her intention to be attached to those types, but she was always completely enthralled with them. They somehow draw her in.

As she ponders whether to make a quick, passing hello, she realizes that she’s standing awkwardly near her table seemingly frozen and staring at the man. Blinking and shaking her head, she makes a beeline for the door, which is when she hears an unmistakable baritone voice calling out her name. She freezes then slowly turns, giving him a half-smile.

“Oh, h-hello Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock gives her a light smile. “Sherlock, remember?”

“Right. Sherlock.”

“I need your professional opinion.”

“Oh, um…sure. What’s up?”

“This looks like a postmortem bruise with a blunt instrument, wouldn’t you say?”

Molly peers over at the gory photos in his hand, leaning close enough to smell his cologne, but she prevents herself from breathing it in too obviously. “Yes, it looks like the skull was shattered using a blunt, heavy object. From the shape of the bruising, I’d say some sort of…metal pipe or handle of sorts. Maybe even a skinnier baseball bat.”

“Mmh”, he hums and looks her over approvingly. “Good job.”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “Erm…thanks? I’ve seen many of those in murder victims, unfortunately. Anyway, you probably shouldn’t be looking at those types of photos in a busy café. Bit…morbid…for the general public, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who cares about the general public when there are crimes to solve and time is of the essence? I doubt any of these people would want to be this criminal’s next victim.”

“Well I suppose that’s true, but you could be more discreet. What if a child were to walk in? You never know who could see what you’re up to. They may get suspicious and think it’s you. Better to be careful with the information and in this case, photographs you possess.”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs. “People usually believe it’s me, especially the ones that hate me. Now that you’ve given your input, you can go now, I’m done with you.”

“Done with me?”

“You know…you’re no longer needed at the moment.”

“Right. I guess Greg wasn’t kidding when he said manners aren’t your strong suit.”

“No time for manners. Now, if you please”, he waves his hand towards the door, beckoning her out. “I have a lot of work to do.”

Molly huffs. “Fine. Don’t come crawling to me when you need information on an autopsy or access to the forensics lab then. I might just be too busy to entertain you.” She goes to turn away and Sherlock carefully grabs her wrist.

“Wait.”

She swallows a bit, feeling his fingers across her pulse point. Her whole body freezes for a moment, knowing that he must feel it beating hard underneath her pale skin. If asked, her attraction to him would be undeniable. At this notion, her cheeks bloom the color of a pink carnation. She tries to force the blush away and then slowly turns around to face him again. “Y-yes?”

Sherlock puffs out a sigh. “I didn’t mean-…I get very focused on my work and frustrated easily. It’s not you in particular. I’m like this with everyone.”

“Oh, how comforting”, she snarks, despite the hammering in her chest, as his skin has yet to leave hers, and she can bet that her own is heating up.

“I am very fond of your pathological work, Doctor Hooper. I do need your connection with St. Bart’s, and I am very appreciative of it, despite the fact that I may not vocalize or seem it too often. You’ll notice a pattern of what some would call rudeness on my behalf, and I can assure you that it is nothing you do or say, it is purely my own disposition.”

Molly nods a bit and almost frowns when he removes his hand from her wrist. “I’ll take that as an apology then, as I suppose that’s as good as it’s going to get. Therefore, I’ll leave you to your work. Good day, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good day, Molly.”

As he turns back to the photos and his laptop, Molly’s stomach does flips when he says her name. It’s so odd how she would like to skin him and snog him at the same time. He is just so frustrating yet attractive. “How is one both? How is that even possible?”, she wonders to herself as she enters her car.

As she makes her way through the crowded streets of downtown London, she lets out a heavy breath in frustration. No matter what she does, she can’t seem to get him out of her head. She tries and tries but he is always there. Since the moment she first laid eyes on him she couldn’t think of anyone else. It’s beginning to become a curse.

“Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you and your perfect fucking face with your ocean eyes and your fucking cheekbones and your gorgeous jawline and your crazy wild amazing curls that I want to run my damn fingers through. Ugh, I hate you and your pompousness too! But fuck, I wish you were mine...” she says out loud to herself as she drives.

Today was going to be another day of trying to focus on nothing but work, but her mind wandering to the memory of him. His looks, his voice, how he smells with his new cologne. Though she hates herself for it, work has become a distraction until the next time he graces her with his very presence in her lab. Molly knew she was head over heels. So damn him, indeed.

~~~~~~~

“Damn Molly Hooper”, Sherlock thinks to himself as he looks through the crime scene photos for what seems like the hundredth time. His mind couldn’t seem to focus when she was in the room. Sherlock had kept sneaking peeks at her throughout breakfast. Of course, he had known that she was looking back when his own head was turned, but he wonders if she knew that he was looking. “Oh for God's sake, pull yourself together”, he scolds himself internally. But she looked so...Molly. If that was even a word to describe her. But that’s just it. There is just a certain air about Molly that makes her so unique and so /her/. She’s innocent-looking, but he knows she is as morbid as he is. She wears these ridiculous mismatched tops, but she’s more professional than he. Plus, despite her clothing choices and her morbidity, she is one of the most beautiful women Sherlock has ever seen.

It’s not that Molly is socially beautiful. A lot of men would probably look over her as plain or average, however, when you have a larger mind you can notice the little things that make a person attractive. For Molly, it’s not just that she has brown eyes, but it’s the wonder and intelligence within them. It’s not just her cute little upturned nose, it’s the way she can identify a chemical with it in one whiff. It’s not just her small mouth, it’s lips that make way for a beautiful voice. Yes, she may have a smaller figure, and not so many curves, but she is perfectly proportionate which makes her aesthetically pleasing to his eye. Her hair may be straight and brown, but when it’s up in its ponytail he knows she means business and doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty. Though he absolutely wouldn’t mind seeing it down and about her shoulders, flowing around her face. Honestly, he wouldn’t mind it staying in a ponytail either. Makes it easier to grab when... “Sherlock, enough!! Get to work!” he yells at himself.

Unfortunately, he quickly realizes, that he has said this aloud. Awkwardly looking around the room, he makes some stupid excuse and gathers his things, quickly walking out and hailing a cab back to his flat. When he gets there, he dumps his armful and goes back outside, taking a long drag of a cigarette. He loves when he has a full box.

Softly blowing out the smoke, he relaxes a bit. “Emotions get you nowhere, Sherlock. You need to think, not feel”, he thinks, remembering that lesson from Mycroft.

“Think, not feel”, he murmurs to himself. “Superior minds don’t need to be fogged up with feelings. It just can’t, or you’ll get nowhere in life. Pull yourself together.”

He finishes his cigarette and squashes it under his foot, going back inside his terrible flat. “Damn you, Molly Hooper. Damn your perfect face, your warm eyes, your fucking jawline, your soft-looking lips, and your stupid ponytail. I hate you and your incredible heart. It’s not fair. I can’t do this. I have to work.”

Laying down on the hard sofa, he groans in frustration and then settles into his mind palace. As he wanders within it, filing away information about the case, he sees a perfect rendition of Molly Hooper standing there smiling in a loud jumper and her lab coat, her ponytail swishing behind her when she walks toward him. “Get out of my head!”

“Oh, I can’t quite do that. You put me here.”

“Just go!”

“Go…where, exactly?”

“I-I don’t know, just go away. Go in a room and stay there.”

“But I don’t have a room.”

“Well...then...I’ll make one.” Sherlock walks down the hall, irritated, to a blank part of the wall. He waves his hand and a heavy wooden door appears. As he opens it and enters the room, he takes all of his thoughts and memories of Molly and waves his hand again, making file cabinets appear. With the flick of his wrists, he files away everything of her that he knows up to this date. Turning to his Mind Palace Molly, he waves her close. “In here is where you shall stay unless I need you for a dire emergency...though I don’t know what exactly I’d need you for.”

“Alright”, she smiles sweetly and goes into the room. Sherlock makes a cozy chair appear and she goes to sit in it.

“Wait”, Sherlock mumbles, catching her wrist and feeling the throbbing pulse underneath his fingers, identical to real Molly earlier that day. “Just...one more thing. Since this isn’t real and nobody will ever know.”

“What is that?”

Sherlock pulls her close into a kiss, and she eagerly returns it, caressing his face as he moans into her mouth. He slides his hands into her hair beneath her ponytail and pulls her hips closer with his free hand. Mind Palace Molly moans as well and slips her arms over his shoulders. After a moment he pulls himself away from her and sighs. “If only that could be real. But alas, it can’t. You get in the way of my work, so I’m going to have to keep you away now. For possibly ever. I need to concentrate, you see. And with you wandering around my head, I just can’t. This must be goodbye. I have to close you up in this room now. Goodbye, Molly.”

“Goodbye...”, she says softly and quietly as Sherlock leaves and heaves the heavy door shut. He leans against it for a moment, his head spinning and his heart aching. Sherlock forces himself away and back to his case filing room, finally able to concentrate on the details of the case at hand, his mind clearer.

Without those thoughts of Molly Hooper distracting him, he finally has the type of clarity that he hasn’t had since the day he laid eyes on her.


	9. Lonely Heart & Emotional Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's Day. Molly and Sherlock think very differently but celebrate on their own nonetheless.

_{The Blog of Doctor Molly Hooper- February 14, 2009_

_So I had yet another uneventful Valentine’s Day. Well…not completely uneventful. I still worked today, and Sherlock came into Bart’s for a case. I admit, the second he walks in, my heart always flutters, and it seems that I lose all ability to even speak straight. He came in with baggies of human hair and different sharp-edged objects. Told me that he needed to experiment on the way that different types of hair fibers break. Hell if I know the exact situation why he needed to test the durability of hair strands and what they look like when hair was cut by different types of objects. I suppose that could be a bit interesting though. Honestly, it's fascinating to watch him work, no matter what crazy experiment he has thought up. I especially enjoy when he uses the microscope. The way his long and nimble fingers gently turn the knob and replace the slides. It’s strangely…sexual. I probably shouldn’t say that, but he’s just so gorgeous it’s hard not to see him that way, even if his personality is the exact opposite of his appearances. I suppose all and all that Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad then. I’m sure that sounds super pathetic to most people in wedded bliss or domestic loving relationships. After all, what’s a measly four hours of just watching your secret crush, compared to the entire works that most get from their partners on this day of love? Not much. But alas, that’s my reality. I had the autopsy of another young woman today. It was difficult to concentrate because she looked like my friend Meena. Her captor had killed her with blunt force trauma to the skull…just horrible. Not exactly a great way to spend Valentine’s Day._

_Obviously, instead of autopsies, flowers, chocolate, champagne, jewelry, candles, and romantic dinners sound absolutely blissful to me. I’m a pretty basic person in that respect. Though, I do realize that it’s not in the cards for me, at least not this year. Since going through all the painful times that I’ve been through, I’ve started living my life with the notion that everything happens for a reason. However painful, however dark, however difficult. As they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Most of the time anyway._

_Oh! I almost forgot to tell you all! Since I don’t have a love in my life in the shape of a man, I treated myself to something that I have always wanted but could not afford until now. I got a little kitten! He is SO cute! He’s a ten-week-old grey striped tabby cat, and I named him Tobias. Toby for short. Guys, he is so small, he fits in my hands. He is just the most adorable little ball of fluff I have ever seen! I gifted myself a kitten, and it’s frankly better than any fancy jewelry or candles. Toby is perfect because he’s all mine. <3 Here is the CUTEST picture of him:_

__

_P.S- Clearly, I got myself some discounted chocolates too. Duh._

_xx Molly }_

Molly smiles to herself and pops another chocolate into her mouth as Toby mews cutely and curls up in her lap as Molly strokes his fur. She flips the channel to one of her favorite romantic comedy’s and tries to concentrate, even though her mind drifts every so often to thoughts of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

_~~~~~~~_

_{The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – February 14, 2009_

_I had one of the most intriguing and exhilarating cases today. In order to figure out who the kidnapper/murderer was of the woman who was killed, I had to determine who had tried to stop her from leaving by grabbing her hair. It wasn’t just cut though, it was pulled. Ripped. Though it did not get ripped from her head at the follicle, it got ripped in the middle of the strands, which is odd. It means that the man was not able to simply grab her hair with his hands, but he stopped her by catching her hair on something like a doorjamb or with another heavy object against a wall. It did turn out to be a doorjamb. He had trapped her hair in it, and she had ripped the hair while trying to get loose but failed, so he had tried to knock her out so she would stop struggling but ended up killing her with the force of the blow to her head. Luckily, he is now rotting in a prison cell or listening to incessant questioning from New Scotland Yard. I believe Molly had performed her autopsy today. Well, between staring at me and probably sulking at the fact that she didn’t have a date for tonight. I abhor this supposed “holiday”. It’s not a real holiday. It is a fantastical made-up day by florists, chocolatiers, and card-makers to enhance their profits between real, larger holidays. Despiteful. Plus, seeing all the unnecessary PDA makes me want to vomit. Nobody needs to see that. Nobody!_

_Feelings are absolutely useless. They fog up the brain of ordinary people so much so that they never focus on things that really matter. On details and facts that could be needed in the future. It’s best to store away emotions. They no absolutely nothing productive for humans but fuck up everyday situations. The reason the world is a mess is due to emotions running high. If everyone would just think and stop getting their damn feelings “hurt”, the world would be such a better and smoother running place to be._

_Unfortunately, I need to cater to people’s emotions the majority of the time to get work done. People are so easily manipulated, it’s ridiculous. Lestrade, for example, is easy to convince into things because I know he works best on coffee and talk of his children. It helps when you know what other’s expectations of you are. Another reason why emotions aren’t necessary. When you constantly show that you don’t care deeply, there are no expectations placed upon you to have to live up to. Let me tell you, it’s absolutely freeing._

_I don’t think I will have much trouble staying on Molly’s good side, seeing as how she feels about me. It’s unspoken but written all over her body language and the way she stutters when I’m around. I must admit, I thought about putting a single rose on her desk this morning on my way to the lab, though I thought better of it. I was nearly manipulated by the florist but luckily, I’m smarter than the average bloke. Plus, watching her try to figure out who it was all day would have been irritating and distracting._

_Even more so than all that, but she would have definitely taken it the wrong way if I had and she somehow figured out that it was me. Would have just complicated everything in our little arrangement that is working so far. Not about to rock that boat, especially when it regards my access to the morgue and the lab. I could already sense her insane sense of self-consciousness and sadness at her loneliness, and I do not need to be adding any hopeful fuel to that inane fire._

_~SH }_

Sherlock sighs and closes his laptop, running a hand through his curly hair and heading out to his front landing for a smoke. Once finished he returns inside of his dreary flat and heads to the kitchen, smirking as he opens the box of a half-dozen heart-shaped and crème-filled pastries from Speedy’s that he had picked up on his way home. Suddenly feeling starving, he puts three on a paper plate and settles cross-legged onto his sofa, checking his emails on his mobile as he hungrily consumes them.


End file.
